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THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


















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THE EMERALD 
STORY BOOK 


Stories and Legends of 
Spring, Nature and Easter 


COMPILED BY 

ADA M. §KINNER 

AND 

ELEANOR L. SKINNER 



NEW YORK 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 

1915 



Copyright, 1915 

By DUFFIELD & COMPANY 


APR 23 1915 

^ W' • 

©a,A398489 

/ * 







."f, 


INTRODUCTION 


There is no richer theme for children’s sto¬ 
ries than the miracle of Spring. The selec¬ 
tions in “The Emerald Story Book” aim to 
serve the young reader’s interest in three ways. 
Some of the myths and legends are interesting 
or amusing because flowers, insects, or birds 
are presented as personalities and emphasise 
human qualities or feelings. Some of the sto¬ 
ries and poems contribute to the child’s store 
of knowledge by attracting his attention to 
some fact, beauty, or blessing in nature which 
may have escaped his notice. Still others 
make an appeal by suggesting or affirming the 
abiding hope symbolised in the thought, “See 
the land her Easter keeping.” 

The child’s heart is filled with the joy of 
spring,—with the rapture expressed in the 
thrush’s song which Mrs. Ewing describes. 
“Fresh water and green woods, ambrosial sun¬ 
shine and sun-flecked shade, chattering brooks 

V 




VI 


INTRODUCTION 


and rustling leaves, glade and sward and dell. 
Lichens and cool mosses, feathered ferns and 
flowers. Green leaves! Green leaves! Joy! 
Joy!” 

The editors’ thanks are due to Mrs. Kather¬ 
ine Tynan-Hinckson for permission to use her 
poem, “Sheep and Lambs”; Miss Lucy 
Wheelock for her story, “A Little Acorn”; 
to Mr. Bliss Carman for “A Lyric of Joy”; 
Mr. Clinton Scollard for “The Little Brown 
Wren”; Mr. James Whitcomb Riley for the 
quotation from “Mister Hop-Toad”; Mrs. 
Agnes McClelland Daulton and Rand, Mc¬ 
Nally & Co., for two stories, “A Great Fam¬ 
ily” and “Jolly Little Tars”; Mr. Warren 
J. Brier for “Mr. Pine and Mr. Maple”; 
Mrs. Margaret Deland for her poem, “Jon¬ 
quils”; Miss Helen Keller for “Edith and the 
Bees”; Mrs. Annie Trumbull Slosson for “A 
Child’s Easter”; and Mr. Alfred Noyes for 
his poem “Little Boy Blue”; and to the follow¬ 
ing publishers who have granted permission 
to reprint selections in this collection from 
works bearing their copyright: to G. P. Put- 


INTRODUCTION vii 

nam’s Sons for ‘‘The Selfish Giant,” by Oscar 
Wilde; to Houghton Mifflin Co., for the 
poem, “Talking in Their Sleep,” by Edith M. 
Thomas; to the Atlantic Monthly and Silver 
Burdette Company for “The Maple Seed”; to 
A. Flanagan and Co., of Chicago, for “The 
Promised Plant,” from “Child’s Christ- 
Tales,” by Andrea Hofer Proudfoot, and 
“Pussy Willow,” from “Little People’s Do¬ 
ings and Misdoings” by Kate Louise Brown; 
to Doubleday, Page & Co., for “The House 
Wren,” from “Birds Every Child Should 
Know,” by Neltje Blanchan, and “Briar Rose” 
from “The Fairy Ring,” edited by Kate Doug¬ 
las Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith; to 
Grace Duffield Godwin for “An Eastern 
Legend,” from Houjon Songs, published by 
Sherman, French & Co.; to Henry Holt & 
Co., for the selection, “Buzz and Hum,” by 
Maurice Noel; The Churchman for “In the 
Garden: An Easter Prelude”; Fleming H. 
Revell Co., for “When Thou Comest Unto 
Thy Kingdom”; to The Sunday School Times 
for the “Story of Blue-Wings” and “The 
Wind, a Helper”; to The Youth's Companion 


viii INTRODUCTION 

and Miss Helen Keller for the selection, “The 
Spirit of Easter”; to Messrs. Dodd, Mead and 
Co., and Mr. Paul R. Reynolds, for the selec¬ 
tion from “The Children’s Bluebird,” by 
Maurice Maeterlinck. 


CONTENTS 

SPRING STORIES AND LEGENDS 

PAGE 

April. . 

Robert Browning 

The Spring-Maiden and the Frost Giants (Norse Legend) 3 
Eleanor L, Skinner 

How the Bluebird Was Chosen Herald ...... 14 

Jay T. Stocking 

The Springtime.32 

Eugene Field 

The Selfish Giant..41 

Oscar Wilde 

The Promised Plant.50 

Andrea Hofer Proudfoot 

Brier Rose.54 

Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith 

PiCCiOLA (Adapted).61 

St. Saintine 

St. Francis, the Little Bedesman of Christ.67 

William Canton 

Proserpina and King Pluto (Greek Myth) ..... 71 

Eleanor L. Skinner 

The Wonder— A Parable (From “Parables”) .... 83 

Friedrich Adolph Krummacher 

NATURE STORIES AND LEGENDS 

Green Things Growing (Poem).86 

Dinah Mulock Craik 












CONTENTS 


PAGE 

V 

The Story of a Little Grain of Wheat ...... 87 

May Byron 

The Little Acorn.100 

Lucy Wheelock 

The Story of Two Little Seeds.104 

George MacDonald 

How THE Flowers Came (Selected) .107 

Jay T. Stocking 

The Legend of Trailing Arbutus (Indian Legend) . .115 

Eleanor L. Skinner 

The Fairy Flower (Adapted from “Norwood”) .... 120 
Henry Ward Beecher 

The Snowdrop.127 

Hans Christian Andersen 

What the Dandelion Told.131 

Clara Maetzel 

Verse.137 

James Russell Loivell 

A Great Family.138 

Agnes McClelland Daulton 

The Birth of the Violet (Legend).142 

Ada M. Skinner 

A Lyric of Joy (Poem).148 

Bliss Carman 

AMONG THE TREE-TOPS 

Robin’s Carol (From “Angler’s Reveille”) .150 

Henry van Dyke 

How THE Birds Came (Indian Legend). 151 

Ada M. Skinner 

How THE Birds Learned to Build Nests.154 

James Baldvuin 

Out of the Nest.158 

Maud Lindsay 

















CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Story of Blue-Wings.164 

Mary Ste^wart 

An Eastern Legend (Poem).170 

Grace Duffield Goodnvin 

The House Wren.171 

Neltje Blanchan 

The Little Brown Wren.173 

Clinton Scollard 

The Children of Wind and The Clan of Peace (A 

Christ-Legend) (Adapted).176 

Fiona MacLeod 

IN MEADOW AND POND 

A Spring Lilt (Poem).182 

Unkno^ivn 

How Butterflies Came.183 

Hans Christian Andersen 

White Butterflies (Poem).184 

Algernon Charles SvAnburne 

The Butterfly.185 

Mrs, Alfred Gatty 

The Wind, a Helper.. . 196 

Mary Steivart 

The Springing Tree: Willows .203 

Mrs. Dyson 

Pussy Willow.210 

Kate Louise Bro^wn 

The Dragon Fly.212 

Mrs. Alfred Gatty 

The Cicada’s Story (Selected).220 

Agnes McClelland Daulton 

Edith and the Bees. 2,26 

Helen Keller 

















CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Little Tadpoles (From Stories in “Prose and Verse”) 230 
Katharine Pyle 

Mister Hop-Toad (Poem).237 

James Whitcomb Riley 

Buz AND Hum .238 

Maurice Noel 

The Story Without an End. i. In the Green Meadow. 

2. The Story of a Drop of Water.246 

Translated by Sarah Austin from the German of 
A. Carove 

Legend of the Forget-Me-Not ......... 253 

Ada M. Skinner 

Four-Leaf Clover (Poem) . 256 

Ella Higginson 

Jolly Little Tars.257 

Agnes McClelland Daulton 

Mr. Maple and Mr. Pine.275 

Warren Judson Brier 

A GARDEN OF EASTER STORIES 

Old English Verse.286 

The Easter Rabbit (German Legend).287 

Eleanor L. Skinner 

The Boy Who Discovered the Spring .295 

Raymond MacDonald Alden 

Sheep and Lambs (Poem) ..308 

Katharine Tynan 

Robin Redbreast— A Christ-Legend (Adapted) (From 

Christ-Legends).309 

Selma Lager I'd f 

The Maple Seed.; ..318 

From The Atlantic Monthly 

Why the Ivy Is Always Green.322 

Madge Bingham 















CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Jonquils (Poem) . .. 329 ' 

Margaret Deland 

When Thou Comest Into Thy Kingdom >• . . . 330 
Mary Ste^ivart 

The Legend of the Easter Lily.345 

Ada M. Skinner 

Song .. v . 346 

Henry Neville Maughan 

In the Garden; An Easter Prelude.347 

JV. M. L. Jay 

“Spirit” and “Life”. 353 

Margaret Emma Ditto 

A Child’s Easter (Poem).. . > . . 359 

Annie Trumbull Slosson 

The Spirit of Easter. 363 

Helen Keller 

There Are No Dead.365 

Maurice Maeterlinck, adapted from “The Bluebird” 
by Madame Maeterlinck. 

Little Boy Blue (Poem).370 

Alfred Noyes 












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THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


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SPRING STORIES AND LEGENDS 






APRIL 


The year’s at the spring 
And day’s at the morn; 

Morning’s at seven; 

The hillside’s dew-pearled; 

The lark’s on the wing; 

The snail’s on the thorn: 

God’s in his heaven— 

All’s right with the world! 

And after April, when May follows 

And the whitethroat builds and all the swallows! 

Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge— 
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 
Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children’s dower— 

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 

Robert Browning. 






THE SPRING-MAIDEN AND THE 
FROST GIANTS 


In their glittering palace of icebergs the 
Frost Giants were planning to capture Iduna, 
the fair Spring-Maiden, and the rare treasure 
which she guarded. Hoar-Frost, North- 
Wind, Sleet, Hail, and Blizzard were grow¬ 
ing restless, locked in their frozen waste-land 
of the North. They longed to enter the 
valley of Spring and bring desolation to the 
fruitful fields. 

‘We are helpless unless we seize the Spring- 
Maiden and take from her the casket of golden 
apples,” said Giant Hoar-Frost. “So long as 
she guards this life-giving fruit all nature will 
rejoice; the birds will sing their foolish ju¬ 
bilees; gay blossoms will flaunt in the mead¬ 
ows; robes of green will bedeck the trees, 
and the people will enjoy everlasting youth 
and vigour.” 

“What you say is true,” said Giant North- 
Wind. “If once I could enter the groves of 

3 





4 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

the Spring-Maiden’s valley I’d howl so long 
and loud that those tiresome birds would stop 
their endless singing.” 

^‘Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Giant Blizzard. 
‘‘You would need my help, I believe. One of 
my early morning calls would turn the trem¬ 
bling dew-drops into icicles, and change the 
smiling faces of the brooks and rills into frozen 
images 1” 

“Especially if I went with you,” added 
Giant Sleet slyly. 

“Oh, I should expect to be accompanied by 
you and your twin brother Hail,” nodded Bliz¬ 
zard. “I know how easily you can lock the 
grass and flowers in a casement of ice which 
they couldn’t break, and Hail has a very 
clever, quick way of cutting off all the leaves. 
But the question now is how shall we capture 
the Spring-Maiden whose apples keep the 
valley fresh and fair and the people forever 
young!” 

For a few moments the Frost Giants were 
silent. Many times they had tried to entrap 
the fair Iduna and her treasure, but they had 
always failed. 


THE SPRING-MAIDEN 5 

“I have it/’ said Hoar-Frost. must se¬ 

cure the help of Loki, the Prince of Mischief. 
He lives in Asgard near the Spring-Maiden’s 
groves, and people say he often visits Iduna in 
order to refresh himself with one of her life- 
giving apples. Let us capture him first and 
then compel him to help us. We giants are 
fast growing old! The magic apples would 
renew our strength for years to come!” 

^‘Agreed!” said North-Wind, Blizzard, 
Sleet, and Hail in one voice. “Loki first and 
then Iduna!” 

After much discussion it was decided that 
'Blizzard should undertake to capture Loki. 

A short time after the council of the Frost- 
Giants, Loki, the Prince of Mischief, was 
amusing himself with a great fire which he 
had built on one of the hills just beyond the 
city of Asgard. Several times he stopped and 
peered into the sky to see what caused the huge 
shadow which seemed to hover near him. He 
could see nothing but a gigantic eagle whirl¬ 
ing around the summit of the hill. Loki left 
his fire to gather another bundle of faggots. 
Suddenly the great bird swooped down very 


6 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


near him. He quickly seized a long stake and 
struck the intruder across the back. To Loki’s 
amazement one end of the stake stuck fast to 
the eagle’s plumage and the Prince of Mis¬ 
chief could not loosen his hands from the end 
which he held. The eagle spread its huge 
dark wings and flew away over rocks and hills 
far to the North. 

^‘Help! help!” screamed the terrified Loki, 
but although he struggled with all his might 
he could not escape from his captor. 

When they reached a very lonely spot the 
eagle alighted on a mountain peak and from 
the black plumage stepped the Storm Giant, 
Blizzard, who said: 

^‘Loki, you are in my power and you shall 
not escape until you promise to help the Frost 
Giants in a very difficult undertaking!” 

^‘What is that?” gasped the bruised and 
terrified Loki. 

“You must help us to capture Iduna, the 
Spring-Maiden, and the treasure which she 
guards. We cannot enter the valley of Spring 
until Iduna is made our captive.” 

“Help you to capture the treasure which 




THE SPRING-MAIDEN 


7 

gives life and youth to all who partake of it!” 
said Loki. “Impossible!” 

“Then away to the North we will go,” de¬ 
clared the Storm Giant, putting on his eagle 
plumage again. 

“Stop! Stop!” cried Loki in terror. “Let 
me think a moment!” 

After a short consideration Loki took an 
oath that he would betray Iduna and her treas¬ 
ure into the hands of the Frost Giants. Then 
the Prince of Mischief was freed, and back 
to the North sped Blizzard. 

The next day late in the afternoon, Iduna, 
robed in a trailing garment of green and 
crowned with a coronet of blossoms, was walk¬ 
ing through one of her loveliest groves. The 
leaves were dancing to the music of a gentle 
breeze. A delicious fragrance of hyacinths 
and roses scented the valley. She sat down 
near a cool fountain and placed her treasure- 
casket of apples on the marble basin. 

Presently a long shadow darkened the path 
near her, and looking up quickly the Spring- 
Maiden saw Loki standing near. 

“I have come for the refreshing gift of one 


8 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


of your apples, Iduna,” said he. ‘‘A long 
journey has wearied my limbs and broken my 
spirit.” 

^‘You are very welcome to one of them,” 
said Iduna, opening her box. “It has been 
some time since you tasted a golden apple.” 

Loki began to eat the precious gift, and 
Iduna watched him closely. She was very 
proud of her refreshing fruit. 

In a little while he put the half-eaten apple 
on the basin of the fountain and said, “I am 
going to tell you a secret, Iduna. Not far 
away from here I discovered a grove where a 
marvellous tree grows. It bears fruit shaped 
like yours but larger and of a deep golden 
colour.” 

“Oh!” laughed the Spring-Maiden, “the 
fruit may be larger and more beautiful than 
mine, but I’m sure it has not the power to 
put youth and life into those who partake of 
it.” 

“I am afraid you are mistaken,” said the 
wily Loki. “People who have eaten the fruit 
of this tree say that its refreshing power is 
wonderful. If you wish, I will gladly guide 


THE SPRING-MAIDEN 


9 


you to the grove—it is not far away—and then 
you can compare this fruit, which is attract¬ 
ing much attention, with yours. Will you 
go?” 

^Wes, I will indeed,” said Iduna, who could 
not believe that any other apples were com¬ 
parable with hers. 

Loki led the way and Iduna, carrying her 
treasure, followed him eagerly. She was a 
little surprised to find the grove Loki de¬ 
scribed so far away from Asgard, but her de¬ 
sire to find fruit more wonderful than the 
magic apples urged her on. Finally they 
reached a meadow bordered by a dense forest. 

^‘Look,” said Loki, pointing forward, ^Ve 
shall soon reach the place.” 

Suddenly a dark shadow fell across Iduna’s 
path. The Storm Giant, disguised in eagle’s 
plumage, swooped down, caught the Spring- 
Maiden and her golden apples in his talons, 
and sped away to the frozen North. There 
the Frost Giants imprisoned the captive in one 
of their ice-palaces. 

It was not long before the joyous valley of 
Spring felt the absence of Iduna. The flowers 


10 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


drooped and faded; the grass became parched 
and brown, and the tender green foliage 
turned to burnt orange, crimson, and russet. 

^‘What has become of Iduna?” cried the 
people. “See how the valley is changing!” 

Slowly but surely the Frost Giants were 
working their way toward the valley of 
Spring. One night Hoar Frost stalked along 
the outskirts of the groves and withered the 
leaves and flowers with his icy breath. The 
next morning the people heard the dismal 
howl of North-Wind. “We must find the 
Spring-Maiden or we shall die,” they cried in 
alarm. 

In their distress they begged Odin, the wise 
hero who governed Asgard, to call a special 
council in order to determine how the secret 
of Iduna’s disappearance could be discovered. 

Odin called together his hero council and 
after earnest thought they decided to question 
Loki, the Prince of Mischief. He had seldom 
been seen in Asgard since the Spring-Maiden 
had left the valley. One of the heroes de¬ 
clared that the last time he saw Iduna she was 
walking with Loki. 


THE SPRING-MAIDEN 


II 


The Prince of Mischief was accordingly 
summoned to appear in the council of heroes. 
His answers to the questions they asked him 
aroused suspicion. 

^‘Tell us the truth about this matter,” said 
the hero Thor, in a voice which shook like the 
roar of distant thunder. 

Then the cowardly Loki confessed the plot 
which robbed the valley of the Spring-Maiden 
and her magic apples. 

^‘Loki,” said Odin sternly, “I command you 
to bring back Iduna. Let there be no delay, 
for even the heroes of Asgard are suffering 
in her absence!” 

Loki knew he dared not disobey this final 
command. He disguised himself in falcon’s 
plumage and sped away to the desolate North 
where a dull leaden sky overhung all the land. 
In circling about the icebergs he spied the 
Storm-Giant, fishing from the top of a large 
rock. Loki descended quickly, flew into one 
of the openings of the Giant’s ice-palace, and 
made his way to the place where Iduna lay 
sleeping on a rough couch. The Prince of 


12 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


Mischief stepped out of his disguise and 
awakened the Spring-Maiden. 

^‘False Loki,” she cried. ‘‘Have you come 
to do more mischief?” 

“I have been sent by Odin to rescue you,” 
said he. “You can escape only by the help 
of my magic.” 

Then he transformed Iduna and the pre¬ 
cious casket of apples, placed them in a magic 
nutshell, put on his falcon plumage, and flew 
away toward Asgard. 

As he sped across the dull sky the Storm- 
Giant looked up and saw him. 

“It is Loki disguised as a falcon,” he said. 
“He is taking the Spring-Maiden back to As¬ 
gard. But he shall not escape me!” In¬ 
stantly the Storm-Giant put on his eagle plum¬ 
age and flew after Loki. 

How anxiously the people of Asgard 
watched for the return of Loki with Iduna. 
They heaped great piles of chips around the 
walls of Asgard and held torches ready to light 
the fires in case the Frost Giants came near. 

On the third day after Loki’s departure 
from Asgard, the people saw two great birds 





THE SPRING-MAIDEN 


13 

flying with lightning speed toward the city. 

“It is the Storm Giant following Loki,” 
they cried. “What a furious pursuit! Seel 
See! The eagle is gaining on the falcon! 
Light the fires as soon as Loki passes over! 
Ready! The fires!” Another moment of 
breathless suspense! The falcon swept over 
the walls of Asgard. Instantly a blaze burst 
forth all around the city. The falcon had won 
the mighty race. The eagle whirled far 
above the flames and looked down into the 
city. He dared not descend. With a cry of 
despair he sped back to the ice-bound North¬ 
land. 

“The joyous Spring-Maiden is ours again,” 
cried the happy people as they gathered 
around Iduna. “Her presence fills us with 
life and hope. See, the casket of golden ap¬ 
ples is safe in her hands! Soon all nature will 
be fair and beautiful. The Spring-Maiden is 
our joy.” 



HOW THE BLUEBIRD WAS 
CHOSEN HERALD^ 

Jay T. Stocking 

Query Queer was the boy who loved the 
woods and asked so many questions. The 
Wise-and-Wonder-Man was the spirit of the 
woods whom Query met one day and who 
answered Query’s questions. Of course, as 
Query often went to the woods it was quite 
certain that he should sometime meet the 
spirit again. And so he did. It happened 
one day just as the snow was disappearing and 
the sun was growing warm. Query had been 
taking his first spring walk, and, as he was a 
bit tired, he sat down on the sunny slope of a 
knoll. He was scarcely seated when down 
out of the green boughs of a hemlock tree in 
front of him slid the Wise-and-Wonder-Man, 
dressed in his light blue suit with every button 
a silver bell, and his pointed cap to match, 

*By special permission of Pilgrim Press. 

14 


BLUEBIRD CHOSEN HERALD 15 

with its fringe of silver bells. At every move 
he made, the bells went tinkle-tankle, tinkle- 
tankle. Query was so surprised that he al¬ 
most forgot to breathe. 

^‘Good morning, Query,” said the Wise- 
and-Wonder-Man, ‘Vhat are you wondering 
about now?” 

“I was just wondering,” said Query, nod¬ 
ding his head toward a bluebird near by, “why 
the bluebird is the first bird of spring.” 

“Why, he is the herald, you know.” 

“But how did he come to be the herald? 
Do you know?” 

“I have heard,” said the Wise-and-Wonder- 
Man. 

“Who told you?” 

“My grandmother. She said her grand¬ 
mother’s grandmother’s grandmother told the 
story; and what her grandmother’s grand¬ 
mother’s grandmother said, my grandmother 
says is so.” 

“Of course,” said Query. “Would you tell 
me the story?” 

“Certainly; make yourself comfortable.” 

Query lay down on one elbow and the Wise- 



i6 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


and-Wonder-Man sat on a fresh, clean chip, 
that the choppers had made, and talked. 

“You know there are four spirits of the 
year. Springtime, Summer, Autumn, and Win¬ 
ter. Some folks call them seasons, but they 
are really spirits. Of all four spirits. Spring¬ 
time is the favourite. He had been coming to 
the earth every year for a great many years, 
year after year, when he got it into his head 
that it would be a fine thing and quite becom¬ 
ing to his dignity to have a herald,—some 
one to carry his colours and play the fife. At 
first he thought of the fragrant flowers, they 
could bear his colours. But he reflected that 
they could not play the fife. Then he thought 
of the buzzing bee; he might be taught to play 
the fife. But he remembered that he would 
not do, because he could not carry the colours. 
So he decided that he must have a bird. 

“Springtime, being a very lively and prac¬ 
tical spirit, called the birds together that very 
morning. He asked them all to meet him by 
the Great Rock under the Great Tree by the 
Great Bend of the Big River. They all came 
—birds of every size and colour and descrip- 


BLUEBIRD CHOSEN HERALD 17 

tion. He sat on the Great Rock while the 
birds sat on the grass and listened with wide, 
round, blinking eyes and with heads cocked 
to one side. 

“He made a speech to them of some length. 
He told them that he desired a herald to carry 
his colours and to play the fife. Of course, 
the bird to be chosen should be handsome and 
musical. But he must be more than all that. 
He wanted a bird of exceptionally good char¬ 
acter, in fact, the very best bird that could be 
found. He did not expect to find a perfect 
bird, he said, but he desired a bird as nearly 
perfect as he could obtain. He concluded 
his speech by saying that his herald should be: 

“ ‘Both handsome and happy, gifted and good, 

And as modest as modest can be. 

The very best bird that flies in the wood, 

I would that my herald be he.’ 

The choice, he said, he would leave to the 
birds as they knew each other thoroughly. 

“The birds put their heads together and 
talked in at least forty different languages. 
Finally, their spokesman told Springtime that 


i8 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


they were content to leave the selection to a 
committee of six whom he might name. As 
Springtime wanted to be on good terms with 
all the birds, he thought it not best that he 
should appoint the committee. He pulled a 
handful of grass and held it tightly between 
his hands just so that the ends would stick out, 
and then he asked the birds to come up, one by 
one, and pull out a blade. The six who should 
draw out the shortest blades of grass were to 
be the committee. 

‘‘They walked up one by one, and drew. 
Mr. Crow drew the shortest blade and so was 
the chairman. Mr. Parrot came next, then Mr. 
Blue Jay, Mr. Robin, Mr. English Sparrow, 
and Mr. Bluebird. It was a strange commit¬ 
tee, to be sure, of all sizes and kinds of birds. 

“That very evening the six birds met in a 
corner of Mr. Farmer’s orchard upon a dead 
branch of an old apple tree. They talked and 
talked and talked. They discussed all the 
birds that they knew, spoke of their good 
qualities and their bad ones. 

“At last, as it grew late, very late, almost 
eight o’clock, and they had come to no conclu- 



BLUEBIRD CHOSEN HERALD 19 

sion, Mr. Bluebird proposed that they should 
vote, and all agreed. But how should they 
vote? That was the next question. Mr. 
Bluebird suggested that each one, as his name 
was called, should stand up and say which bird 
he thought was best fitted to be the herald. 
Mr. Crow cleared his throat and said that he 
did not think this was the wisest way. He 
thought it better, he continued, that each one 
should write the name of his choice on the 
under side of a leaf. The other members of 
the committee agreed with Mr. Crow. Each 
bird, therefore, took a leaf, and wrote a name 
upon it, and Mr. Bluebird counted the votes. 
There was one vote for Mr. Crow, one vote for 
Mr. Parrot, one for Mr. Blue Jay, one for Mr. 
Robin, one for Mr. English Sparrow, and 
one for—I don’t remember whether it was for 
Mr. Song Sparrow or Mr. Bobolink. Would 
you believe it?—every bird except the blue¬ 
bird had voted for himself. The bluebird 
knew, because he knew the foot-writing of all 
the birds. He had seen it in the soft sand by 
the water. 

‘Tt was certain that they were not going to 


20 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


be able to decide among themselves who should 
be chosen, so Mr. Bluebird made another sug¬ 
gestion. 

‘I recommend,’ he said, hhat we go and 
consult the old Wizard, Mr. Owl, who holds 
court every night by the light of the moon in 
the hollow of a great grey tree over the ridge. 
He is the wisest of birds and knows every¬ 
thing. I have heard, too, that whenever there 
is a star with a tail in the sky he can read your 
fortunes and your character. Now it so hap¬ 
pens that at this very time there is in the sky 
a star with a tail, for I saw it this morning. 
Little Bluey, my eldest child, woke up very 
early and I had to fly out to get him a worm to 
keep him quiet. Just as I was starting, long 
before sunrise, I saw the comet. I propose 
that we go at once and consult the Wizard and 
let him decide for us who should be the her¬ 
ald.’ 

‘It seems to me,’ said the crow, ‘that this 
is a most excellent suggestion. The Wizard 
is certainly a very wise bird. I have heard 
of him and doubtless he has heard of me. By 
all means, let us go.’ 



BLUEBIRD CHOSEN HERALD 21 

‘‘It was decided then and there that they 
should go that very night, just as soon as the 
comet rose. Mr. Bluebird was to give the 
signal because he knew where to look for the 
comet. 

“At the proper moment Mr. Bluebird shook 
them all by the wing and woke them up, and 
they started, Mr. Crow going first, then Mr. 
Parrot, Mr. Blue Jay, Mr. Robin, Mr. Eng¬ 
lish Sparrow, and Mr. Bluebird. 

“They flew and they flew and they flew, for 
it was a long way and a hard way to find, and 
not one of the six had ever been out so late 
in his life. When they reached the wood they 
were obliged to fly very carefully, so that they 
should not bump their heads against the trees, 
and so that they might be able to read the 
signs along the way. At length they spied a 
great grey tree, with a dimly lighted window 
in it, far up the trunk. Mr. Crow read the 
name on the door-plate and announced that 
they had reached the right house. There was 
no door-bell so Mr. Crow scratched three 
times,—scratch, scratch, scratch. 

“ ‘Who-who?’ came from within. 


22 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


“ Triends,’ said the crow, ‘six friends come 
to consult the Wizard.’ 

“The latch was promptly lifted and the six 
birds walked solemnly in and up the stairs. 

“They found themselves in a little dark 
round room with seats against the sides. Mr. 
Owl sat over on one side, his great fluffy coat 
turned up at the neck and his fluffy hood 
pulled down to meet it. He had his spec¬ 
tacles on and was reading by the light of his 
lamp,—that is, it looked like a lamp, but Mr. 
Owl explained later that it was not a lamp 
but the comet’s light which he caught through 
a knot-hole. 

“The Wizard received them pleasantly and 
motioned to them to be seated. Mr. Crow 
sat down in front of the Wizard at his right, 
then the others in order, Mr. Bluebird sitting 
at the left. 

“ ‘It is very late,’ observed the owl. ‘It 
must be most important business that brings 
you to me at this hour of the night.’ 

“ ‘It is,’ replied the crow, ‘exceedingly im¬ 
portant business, indeed.’ 

“Then in plain and emphatic words he told 


BLUEBIRD CHOSEN HERALD 23 

the Wizard what their errand was. He re¬ 
peated as nearly as he could the speech of 
Springtime, especially the last words: 

“ ‘Both handsome and happy, gifted and good, 
And as modest as modest can be. 

The very best bird that flies in the wood, 

I would that my herald be he.’ 

told the Wizard of their inability to 
decide who should be chosen and of their con¬ 
clusion to leave the choice to him. This was 
the reason of their visit. 

‘‘Then the owl looked grave as a judge and 
remarked, Tt seems to me in this situation 
that the first thing to be done is to secure the 
opinion of each of you as to who is the fittest 
bird to be chosen. Mr. Crow, will you be so 
good as to give us your opinion?’ 

“Mr. Crow stood up, cleared his throat, and 
said, ‘To speak quite frankly, it seems to me 
that I, myself, should be chosen. It is 
scarcely possible to find a better bird.’ 

“ ‘What makes you think so?’ asked the owl 
dryly. 

“ ‘My wife,’ said the crow. ‘Only to-day 




24 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

Mrs. Crow said to me, “Mr. Crow, my dear 
husband, you are a perfect man, unless—” 

“ ‘Unless what?’ inquired the Wizard, rais¬ 
ing his eyebrows. 

“ ‘I don’t recollect,’ replied the crow, ‘in 
fact, I didn’t hear distinctly, but I am sure 
it was something unimportant,’ and he sat 
down. 

“ ‘Mr. Parrot,’ said the Wizard, ‘your opin¬ 
ion, if you please.’ 

“ ‘It is my opinion,’ said Mr. Parrot, ‘that 
I am the bird who should be chosen. I have 
heard myself talk on many an occasion, and 
I am sure that I speak both wisdom and wit. 
In modesty, I forbear to say more.’ 

“ ‘Mr. Blue Jay!’ called the Wizard. 

“ ‘Since you ask me, Mr. Wizard, for my 
honest opinion I am bound to say that I feel 
that I am the only bird for this position. I 
have been looking in the glass to-day; in fact, 
I see myself in the glass very often, and I have 
never yet observed a single fault in myself. 
There is no bird who can say more.’ 

“ ‘Mr. Robin, if you please.’ 

“Mr. Robin arose with his fingers in his 


BLUEBIRD CHOSEN HERALD 25 

armholes: ‘I am quite convinced, Mr. Wiz¬ 
ard, from much observation, that I should be 
made the herald. I am handsome and gifted, 
if I do say it myself. Besides, I live in the best 
of society; I dwell in the Bishop’s orchard. 
This very day I heard the Bishop say, “That 
robin is a fine, handsome bird,—as fine and 
handsome as a Bishop.” I am sure that 
recommendation is enough.’ 

“ ‘Mr. English Sparrow.’ 

“ ‘I am sure, Mr. Wizard,’ said the sparrow, 
speaking very rapidly and excitedly, ‘that 
while I am not so big as some of these who 
have spoken, I have a better claim than any 
of them to this high office. For I have long 
made it a practice to study carefully the faults 
and weaknesses of all the other birds, and I 
know that I have none of these failings.’ 

“ ‘Mr. Bluebird,’ said the Wizard, ‘what 
have you to say?’ 

“ ‘Nothing, Mr. Wizard. I have not made 
up my mind. I leave the matter entirely to 
your eminent wisdom and judgment’ And 
he sat down. 

“ ‘Well,’ said the owl, after a moment’s de- 


26 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


liberation, ‘the next thing to do under these 
circumstances seems to be to read your for¬ 
tunes, that is, your characters, in the light of 
the comet. I shall ask you, one by one, to 
step up on this judgment-seat at my left, where 
the light of the comet can fall on you and 
where I can see you plainly. Mr. Crow, will 
you be the first?’ 

“Mr. Crow stepped up to the judgment-seat 
very confidently, while the Wizard put on his 
spectacles and turned the lamp so that the light 
fell full upon the glossy feathers of the large 
black bird. It was a revolving seat, which 
the Wizard turned round and round slowly so 
that he could see all sides of the bird. ‘A 
fine bird,’ he said, very deliberately, as if 
thinking aloud, ‘a perfect bird, unless—un¬ 
less what?—let me see—ah, a slant in the left 
eye—in both eyes—a very decided slant—very 
sly—very cunning—inclined to steal—very 
much inclined to steal—a thief, in fact; steals 
Mr. Farmer’s corn and peas—especially in 
the early morning when nobody is around—a 
very bad fault—one of the worst. I am quite 
sure, Mr. Crow, that Springtime would not 


BLUEBIRD CHOSEN HERALD 27 

choose you for his herald—he could not trust 
you. That will do. Mr. Parrot!’ 

“Mr. Parrot walked up very sedately and 
took his place on the judgment-seat. The 
Wizard gazed at him gravely and stroked his 
back. ‘Fine feathers—green, red—yellow— 
fine feathers—rather small head—large tongue 
—large tongue, small head—talks more than 
he thinks—talks very much more than he 
thinks—talks often without thinking—says 
what he hears others say. Tongue rather 
harsh, too—and blisters at the end—bad 
words! bad words! I am sorry to say, Mr. 
Parrot, that I cannot recommend you as her¬ 
ald. People would not be glad to see you 
year after year. That will do. Mr. Blue 

Jay!’ 

“The blue jay stepped up very jauntily and 
took the seat. 

“The Wizard looked at him admiringly, for 
he was clad in a beautiful tailor-made suit that 
fitted him to perfection. ‘A handsome bird,’ 
he said, ‘a handsome bird,—that is, handsome 
clothes. Eye very good, too—a little slant, a 
little slant—but on the whole a good eye. Let 


28 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


me see, what is this on the back of the head? 
these long feathers?—oh, a crest! I see. 
Just for decoration. A vain bird, vain as a 
peacock—and like all vain people, hard to get 
along with—and very unfriendly—likes to 
flock alone—other folks not quite good 
enough. I regret to inform you, Mr. Blue 
Jay, that Springtime would not desire you as 
his herald. That will do. Mr. Robin T 
‘‘The robin hopped up on the seat in his fine 
dress suit and red shirt-front, his chest inflated 
and his eyes shining. The Wizard looked at 
him intently for some time, then he began, 
‘You are the Bishop’s friend, you say. Let 
me see—a bright red spot on your bill—the 
Bishop’s cherries, I should say—but we’ll let 
that pass. Eye very suspicious —very suspi¬ 
cious—always looking even among your best 
friends, to see if somebody isn’t going to harm 
you—cannot pull a worm out of the Bishop’s 
garden without looking around suspiciously 
all the time. A very unhappy frame of mind 
to be in—unhappy for you—unhappy for 
others. You would hardly do for the herald. 
That will do. Mr. English Sparrow!’ 


BLUEBIRD CHOSEN HERALD 29 

‘‘The English sparrow fluttered up noisily 
and took his place. ‘You say/ began the 
Wizard, ‘that you have not the faults of the 
other birds.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ said the sparrow, talking very fast, 
‘I am not as mean as the crow, and I don’t 
talk such nonsense as old Polly, and I’m not 
so stuck up as the jay, and I am not suspicious 
as the Bishop’s friend is. I haven’t any of 
the faults of the other birds.’ 

“The Wizard pushed his spectacles up on 
his brow, turned the light away, and looked 
at him, ‘I see,’ he said, ‘I do not need the 
comet light at all. I could see you in the 
dark. Sharp bill—sharp tongue—sharp 
claws, in a continual state of bad temper— 
very quarrelsome—very unpleasant neigh¬ 
bour; in fact, a common nuisance. That will 
do. Mr. Bluebird!’ 

“ ‘I am sure, Mr. Owl,’ said the bluebird, 
rising, ‘that I need not take your time. I am 
not the bird to be chosen, for I know that I 
am far from being a perfect bird. I have 
many faults. There are many nobler birds 



30 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

than I from whom Springtime may choose his 
herald.’ 

“But the Wizard was quite insistent that the 
bluebird should come forward where he could 
read his fortune. 

“ ‘You say that you have many faults,’ re¬ 
marked the Owl. ‘That may be, but I see 
by the light of the comet that they are small, 
very faint indeed. Besides, the ability to see 
one’s faults and the desire to correct them is 
the greatest of virtues. There may be better 
birds, but I am frank to say that I am not ac¬ 
quainted with them. I have no hesitation, 
Mr. Bluebird, in saying that it is my judgment 
that you should be the herald of the Spring, 
for, if you will permit me to say it, it seems 
that you are 

“ ‘Both handsome and happy, gifted and good, 

And as modest as modest can be,’ 

whereat Mr. Bluebird blushed painfully, 
while in his heart he was very happy. 

“Springtime agreed with Mr. Owl, and 
posted notices on every tree by the water’s 


BLUEBIRD CHOSEN HERALD 31' 

edge that Mr. Bluebird should henceforth be 
his herald, the first bird of the spring. 

^‘There is one now on the branch of that 
old tree,” said the Wise-and-Wonder-Man. 
‘‘He is carrying the colours and playing the 
fife.” 

“What is he saying?” asked Query. 

“Well,” said the Wise-and-Wonder-Man, 
“it always sounds to me as if he were saying, 
‘Pur-i-ty, pur-i-ty,’ but I asked him one day 
and he said it was only, ‘Spring-is-here, 
spring-is-here.’ ” 





THE SPRINGTIME^ 

Eugene Field 


A CHILD once said to his grandsire: 
“Gran’pa, what do the flowers mean when 
they talk to the old oak-tree about death? I 
hear them talking every day, but I cannot 
understand; it is all very strange.” 

The grandsire bade the child think no more 
of these things; the flowers were foolish prat¬ 
tlers,—what right had they to put such notions 
into a child’s head? But the child did not do 
his grandsire’s bidding; he loved the flowers 
and the trees, and he went each day to hear 
them talk. 

It seems that the little vine down by the 
stone wall had overheard the South Wind say 
to the rosebush: “You are a proud, imperi¬ 
ous beauty now, and will not listen to my suit; 
but wait till my boisterous brother comes from 

* From “A Little Book of Profitable Tales,” by Eugene Field, 
copyright 1889; published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 

32 


THE SPRINGTIME 


33 

the North,—then you will droop and wither 
and die, all because you would not listen to 
me and fly with me to my home by the South¬ 
ern sea.” 

These words set the little vine to thinking; 
and when she had thought for a long time she 
spoke to the daisy about it, and the daisy called 
in the violet, and the three little ones had a 
very serious conference; but, having talked it 
all over, they came to the conclusion that it 
was as much of a mystery as ever. The old 
oak-tree saw them. 

^‘You little folks seem very much puzzled 
about something,” said the oak-tree. 

“I heard the South Wind tell the rosebush 
that she would die,” exclaimed the vine, “and 
we do not understand what it is. Can you tell 
us what it is to die?” 

The old oak-tree smiled sadly. 

“I do not call it death,” said the old oak- 
tree; “I call it sleep,—a long, restful, refresh¬ 
ing sleep.” 

“How does it feel,” inquired the daisy, 
looking very full of astonishment and anxiety. 

“You must know,” said the oak-tree, “that 


34 the emerald STORY BOOK 

after many, many days we all have had such 
merry times and have bloomed so long and 
drunk so heartily of the dew and sunshine and 
eaten so much of the goodness of the earth 
that we feel very weary and we long for re¬ 
pose. Then a great wind comes out of the 
North, and we shiver in its icy blast. The 
sunshine goes away, and there is no dew for us 
nor any nourishment in the earth, and we are 
glad to go to sleep.” 

“Mercy on me!” cried the vine, “I shall not 
like that at all! What, leave this smiling 
meadow and all the pleasant grass and sing¬ 
ing bees and frolicsome butterflies? No, old 
oak-tree, I would never go to sleep; I much 
prefer sporting with the winds and playing 
with my little friends, the daisy and the 
violet.” 

“And I,” said the violet, “I think it would 
be dreadful to go to sleep. What if we never 
should wake up again!” 

The suggestion struck the others dumb with 
terror,—all but the oak-tree. 

“Have no fear of that,” said the old oak- 
tree, “for you are sure to awaken again, and 


THE SPRINGTIME 


35 

when you have awakened the new life will be 
sweeter and happier than the old.” 

^What nonsense!” cried the thistle. ^‘You 
children shouldn’t believe a word of it. 
When you go to sleep you die, and when you 
die there’s the last of you!” 

The old oak-tree reproved the thistle; but 
the thistle maintained his abominable heresy 
so stoutly that the little vine and the daisy 
and the violet were quite at a loss to know 
which of the two to believe,—the old oak-tree 
or the thistle. 

The child heard it all and was sorely 
puzzled. What was this death, this mysteri¬ 
ous sleep? Would it come upon him, the 
child? And after he had slept awhile would 
he awaken? His grandsire would not tell 
him of these things; perhaps his grandsire did 
not know. 

It was a long, long summer, full of sunshine 
and bird-music, and the meadow was like a 
garden, and the old oak-tree looked down upon 
the grass and flowers and saw that no evil 
befell them. A long, long play-day it was to 
the little vine, the daisy, and the violet. The 


36 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

crickets and the grasshoppers and the bumble¬ 
bees joined in the sport, and romped and made 
music till it seemed like an endless carnival. 
Only every now and then the vine and her 
little flower friends talked with the old oak- 
tree about that strange sleep and the promised 
awakening, and the thistle scoffed at the old 
oak-tree’s cheering words. The child was 
there and heard it all. 

One day the great wind came out of the 
North. Hurry-scurry! back to their warm 
homes in the earth and under the old stone¬ 
wall scampered the crickets and bumblebees 
to go to sleep. Whirr, whirr! Oh, but how 
piercing the great wind was; how different 
from his amiable brother who had travelled 
all the way from the Southern sea to kiss the 
flowers and woo the rose! 

‘Well, this is the last of us!” exclaimed the 
thistle; “we’re going to die, and that’s the end 
of it all!” 

“No, no,” cried the old oak-tree; “we shall 
not die; we are going to sleep. Here, take 
my leaves, little flowers, and you shall sleep 
warm under them. Then, when you awaken. 


THE SPRINGTIME 


37 

you shall see how much sweeter and happier 
the new life is.” 

The little ones were very weary indeed. 
The promised sleep came very gratefully. 

^‘We would not be so willing to go to sleep 
if we thought we should not awaken,” said 
the violet. 

So the little ones went to sleep. The little 
vine was the last of all to sink to her slumbers; 
she nodded in the wind and tried to keep 
awake till she saw the old oak-tree close his 
eyes, but her efforts were vain; she nodded and 
nodded, and bowed her slender form against 
the old stone wall, till finally she, too, had 
sunk into repose. And then the old oak-tree 
stretched his weary limbs and gave a last look 
at the sullen sky and at the slumbering little 
ones at his feet; and with that, the old oak- 
tree fell asleep too. 

The child saw all these things, and he 
wanted to ask his grandsire about them, but 
his grandsire would not tell him of them; 
perhaps his grandsire did not know. 

The child saw the Storm King come down 
from the hills and ride furiously over the 




38 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

meadows and over the forest and over the 
town. The snow fell everywhere, and the 
North Wind played solemn music in the chim¬ 
neys. The Storm King put the brook to bed, 
and threw a great mantle of snow over him; 
and the brook that had romped and prattled 
all the summer and told pretty tales to the 
grass and flowers,—the brook went to sleep 
too. With all his fierceness and bluster, the 
Storm King was very kind; he did not awaken 
the old oak-tree and the slumbering flowers. 
The little vine lay under the fleecy snow 
against the old stone-wall and slept peace¬ 
fully, and so did the violet and the daisy. 
Only the wicked old thistle thrashed about in 
his sleep as if he dreamt bad dreams, which, 
all will allow, was no more than he de¬ 
served. 

All through that winter—and it seemed 
very long—the child thought of the flowers 
and the vine and the old oak-tree, and won¬ 
dered whether in the springtime they would 
awaken from their sleep; and he wished for 
the springtime to come. And at last the 
springtime came. One day the sunbeams flut- 






THE SPRINGTIME 


39 

tered down from the sky and danced all over 
the meadow. 

‘Wake up, little friends!” cried the sun¬ 
beams,—“wake up, for it is springtime!” 

The brook was the first to respond. So 
eager, so fresh, so exuberant was he after his 
long winter sleep, that he leaped from his 
bed and frolicked all over the meadow and 
played all sorts of curious antics. Then a 
little bluebird was seen in the hedge one 
morning. He was calling to the violet. 

“Wake up, little violet,” called the blue¬ 
bird. “Have I come all this distance to find 
you sleeping? Wake up, it is the spring¬ 
time!” 

That pretty little voice awakened the violet. 

“Oh, how sweetly I have slept!” cried the 
violet; “how happy this new life is! Wel¬ 
come, dear friends!” 

And presently the daisy awakened, fresh 
and beautiful, and then the little vine, and, 
last of all, the old oak-tree. The meadow was 
green, and all around were the music, the fra¬ 
grance, the new, sweet life of the springtime. 




40 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

‘T slept horribly,” growled the thistle. ‘T 
had bad dreams. It was sleep, after all, but 
it ought to have been death.” 

The thistle never complained again; for 
just then a four-footed monster stalked 
through the meadow and plucked and ate the 
thistle and then stalked gloomily away; which 
was the last of the sceptical thistle,—truly a 
most miserable end! 

“You said the truth, dear old oak-tree!” 
cried the little vine. “It was not death,—it 
was only a sleep, a sweet, refreshing sleep, and 
this awakening is very beautiful.” 

They all said so,—the daisy, the violet, the 
oak-tree, the crickets, the bees, and all the 
things and creatures of the field and forest that 
had awakened from their long sleep to swell 
the beauty and the glory of the springtime. 
And they talked with the child, and the child 
heard them. And although the grandsire 
never spoke to the child about these things, 
the child learned from the flowers and trees 
a lesson of the springtime which perhaps the 
grandsire never knew. 





THE SELFISH GIANT 

Oscar Wilde 

Every afternoon, as they were coming from 
school, the children used to go and play in the 
Giant’s garden. 

It was a large lovely garden, with soft green 
grass. Here and there over the grass stood 
beautiful flowers like stars, and there were 
twelve peach trees that in the spring time 
broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and 
pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The 
birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that 
the children used to stop their games in order 
to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” 
they cried to each other. 

One day the Giant came back. He had 
been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and 
had stayed with him for seven years. After 
the seven years were over he had said all that 
he had to say, for his conversation was limited, 
and he determined to return to his own castle. 


41 


42 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

When he arrived he saw the children playing 
in the garden. 

“What are you doing there?” he cried in a 
very gruff voice, and the children ran away. 

“My own garden is my own garden,” said 
the Giant; “any one can understand that, and 
I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” 
So he built a high wall all round it, and put 
up a notice-board— 


TRESPASSERS 
WILL BE 
PROSECUTED 


He was a very selfish giant. 

The poor children had nowhere to play. 
They tried to play on the road, but the road 
was very dusty and full of hard stones, and 
they did not like it. They used to wander 
round the high wall when their lessons were 
over, and talk about the beautiful garden in¬ 
side. 

“How happy we were there,” they said to 
each other. 



THE SELFISH GIANT 


43 


Then the Spring came, and all over the 
country there were little blossoms and little 
birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant 
it was still winter. The birds did not care to 
sing in it, as there were no children, and the 
trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful 
flower put its head out from the grass, and 
when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry 
for the children that it slipped back into the 
ground again, and went off to sleep. The 
only people who were pleased were the Snow 
and the Frost. ^‘Spring has forgotten this 
garden,’’ they cried, ‘‘so we will live here all 
the year around.” The Snow covered up the 
grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost 
painted all the trees silver. Then they in¬ 
vited the North Wind to stay with them, and 
he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he 
roared all day about the garden, and blew the 
chimney-pots down. “This is a delightful 
spot,” he said; “we must ask the Hail on a 
visit.” So the Hail came. Every day for 
three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle 
till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran 
round and round the garden as fast as he could 



44 the emerald STORY BOOK 

go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath 
was like ice. 

cannot understand why the Spring is so 
late in coming,” said the Selfish Giant, as he 
sat at the window and looked out at his cold 
white garden; ‘‘I hope there will be a change 
in the weather.” 

But the Spring never came, nor the Sum¬ 
mer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every 
garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave 
none. ^‘He is too selfish,” she said. So it 
was always Winter there, and the North 
Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the 
Snow danced about through the trees. 

One morning the Giant was lying awake in 
bed when he heard some lovely music. It 
sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it 
must be the King’s musicians passing by. It 
was really only a little linnet singing outside 
his window, but it was so long since he had 
heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed 
to him to be the most beautiful music in the 
world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over 
his head, and the North Wind ceased roar¬ 
ing, and a delicious perfume came to him 


THE SELFISH GIANT 


45 


through the open casement. “I believe the 
Spring has come at last,” said the Giant, and 
he jumped out of bed and looked out. 

What did he see? 

He saw a most wonderful sight. Through 
a little hole in the wall the children had crept 
in, and they were sitting in the branches of 
the trees. In every tree that he could see 
there was a little child. And the trees were 
so glad to have the children back again that 
they had covered themselves with blossoms, 
and were waving their arms gently above the 
children’s heads. The birds were flying about 
and twittering with delight, and the flowers 
were looking up through the green grass and 
laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one 
corner it was still winter. It was the farthest 
corner of the garden, and in it was standing a 
little boy. He was so small that he could 
not reach up to the branches of the tree, and 
he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. 
The poor tree was still quite covered with 
frost and snow, and the North Wind was 
blowing and roaring above it. ‘^Climb up! 
little boy,” said the Tree, and it bent its 




46 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

branches down as low as it could; but the boy 
was too tiny. 

And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked 
out. “How selfish I have been!” he said; 
“now I know why the Spring would not come 
here. I will put that poor little boy on the 
top of the tree, and then I will knock down 
the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s 
playground for ever and ever.” He was 
really very sorry for what he had done. 

So he crept down-stairs and opened the 
front door quite softly, and went out into the 
garden. But when the children saw him they 
were so frightened that they all ran away, and 
the garden became winter again. Only the 
little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full 
of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. 
And the Giant strode up behind him and took 
him gently in his hand, and put him up into 
the tree. And the tree broke at once into 
blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, 
and the little boy stretched out his two arms 
and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and 
kissed him. And the other children, when 
they saw that the Giant was not wicked any 


THE SELFISH GIANT 


47 


longer, came running back, and with them 
came the Spring. ^Tt is your garden now, 
little children,” said the Giant, and he took a 
great axe and knocked down the wall. And 
when the people were going to market at 
twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing 
with the children in the most beautiful garden 
they had ever seen. 

All day long they played, and in the even¬ 
ing they came to the Giant to bid him good¬ 
bye. 

“But where is your little companion?” he 
said; “the boy I put into the tree.” The 
Giant loved him the best because he had kissed 
him. 

“We don’t know,” answered the children. 
“He has gone away.” 

“You must tell him to be sure and come 
here to-morrow,” said the Giant. But the chil¬ 
dren said that they did not know where he 
lived, and had never seen him before; and the 
Giant felt very sad. 

Every afternoon, when school was over, the 
children came and played with the Giant. 
But the little boy whom the Giant loved was 



48 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

never seen again. The Giant was very kind 
to all the children, yet he longed for his first 
little friend, and often spoke of him. ‘‘How 
I would like to see him!” he used to say. 

Years went over, and the Giant grew very 
old and feeble. He could not play about 
any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and 
watched the children at their games, and ad¬ 
mired his garden. “I have many beautiful 
flowers,” he said; “but the children are the 
most beautiful flowers of all.” 

One winter morning he looked out of his 
window as he was dressing. He did not hate 
the Winter now, for he knew that it was 
merely Spring asleep, and that the flowers 
were resting. 

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and 
looked and looked. It certainly was a marvel¬ 
lous sight. In the farthest corner of the gar¬ 
den was a tree quite covered with lovely white 
blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and 
silver fruit hung down from them, and under¬ 
neath it stood the little boy he had loved. 

Down-stairs ran the Giant in great joy, and 
out into the garden. He hastened across, and 


THE SELFISH GIANT 


49 

came near to the child. And when he came 
quite close his face grew red with anger, and 
he said, “Who hath dared to wound thee?” 
For on the palms of the child’s hands were the 
prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails 
were on the little feet. 

“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the 
Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword 
and slay him.” 

“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are 
the wounds of Love.” 

“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a 
strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before 
the little child. 

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said 
to him, “You let me play once in your garden; 
to-day you shall come with me to my garden, 
which is Paradise.” 


THE PROMISED PLANT 

Andrea Hofer Proudfoot 


There was once a promise made to all the 
people of the world, and every one was waiting 
and had been waiting long for it to be kept. 

No one could remember who had made the 
promise, but the little children were told that 
it was made by a great King who knew every¬ 
thing that had ever happened, and all things 
that would ever be. 

And this was the promise: 

A wonderful flower was to grow in a certain 
garden that would bring to the one who owned 
the garden all the good things in the world. 

Every one waited and waited for the flower 
to come. Years and years they had waited 
—summer after summer; each new little boy 
and girl that came into the world was told 
of the great promise, and among the very 
first things they did was to go about seeking 
the flower and asking questions about it. 
so 


THE PROMISED PLANT 51 

But no one could tell them anything except 
to repeat the promise that a beautiful gift- 
plant would some day grow upon the earth, 
which only people with loving hearts could 
see, and they should be greatly blessed. 

Every one in the whole world went about 
looking for this flower; even though they did 
a great deal of work, and thought of other 
things, yet they never quite forgot the wonder¬ 
ful promise. 

Many of them prepared the soil and made 
beautiful gardens to receive it. Some sought 
far and wide for rare seeds and bulbs which 
they planted and watered, but only such plants 
grew as every one had seen before, and so 
they still waited and searched. 

Many others wished and wished, and some 
prayed and prayed, but the precious seed did 
not come. 

The rich men of the land had great parks 
laid out; the ground was tilled and every¬ 
thing kept ready for the plant to find root. 
Many gardeners and watchers were hired to 
stay there and watch for this wondrous flower 
and guard it—but it did not come. 


52 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

Yet no one ever doubted the promise, for 
every one wished very much to have all the 
good things which were to come with this 
flower. 

Among all these people there was one very 
kind woman, who did many good deeds. She 
loved and cared for little children who had 
no one to help them. One night when she 
came home from her work what did she see 
in a little broken flower-pot that stood in her 
window? 

A tiny plant which she had never noticed 
before! She watered it and it grew and 
grew, and she learned to love it. 

One day while she was looking at the tiny 
plant she remembered the promise, and said 
quietly to herself: ‘‘Can it be that this is the 
beautiful flower the whole world is waiting 
for! I think it is, for it has made me so 
happy.” 

And it was the flower. 

She knew the promise had come because it 
made her so happy. 

Every one, far and near, came to see it; 
and they begged pieces and seeds to plant. 


THE PROMISED PLANT 53 

And though the good woman gave of her 
plant, it grew larger and larger, and she be¬ 
came happier and happier. 

One day it blossomed wide and beautiful. 

The rich men who had made great parks 
and gardens for the flower would not believe 
the woman had received the real promised 
plant. They shook their heads and laughed 
at it all, and went on seeking after other seeds 
and plants. 

But the people who believed because they 
saw how happy it made the woman to whom 
the flower came, brought rich gifts to her and 
begged for the seed, and they took it home and 
planted it everywhere, that the whole world 
might be filled with joy and peace. 





BRIER ROSE 

Kate Douglas Wiggin 
And Nora Archibald Smith 

A LONG time ago there lived a king and a 
queen, who said every day, only we had 
a child”; but for a long time they had none. 

It fell out once, as the Queen was bathing, 
that a frog crept out of the water on to the 
land and said to her: ‘‘Your wish shall be 
fulfilled; before a year has passed you shall 
bring a daughter into the world.” 

The frog’s words came true. The Queen 
had a little girl who was so beautiful that 
the King could not contain himself for joy, 
and prepared a great feast. He invited not 
only his relations, friends and acquaintances, 
but the fairies, in order that they might be 
favourably and kindly disposed toward the 
child. There were thirteen of them in the 
kingdom, but as the King had only twelve 
54 


BRIER ROSE 


55 

golden plates for them to eat off, one of the 
fairies had to stay at home. 

The feast was held with all splendour, and 
when it came to an end the fairies all presented 
the child with magic gifts. One gave her 
virtue, another beauty, a third riches, and so 
on, with everything in the world that she could 
wish for. 

When eleven of the fairies had said their 
say, the thirteenth suddenly appeared. She 
wanted to revenge herself for not having been 
invited. Without greeting any one, or even 
glancing at the company, she called out in a 
loud voice, “The Princess shall prick herself 
with a distaff in her fifteenth year and shall 
fall dead”; and without another word she 
turned and left the hall. 

Every one was terror-stricken, but the 
twelfth fairy, whose wish was still unspoken, 
stepped forward. She could not cancel the 
curse, but could only soften it, so she said: 
“It shall not be death, but a deep sleep lasting 
a hundred years, into which your daughter 
shall fall.” 

The King was so anxious to guard his dear 


56 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

child from the misfortune that he sent out a 
command that all the distaffs in the whole 
kingdom should be burned. 

All the promises of the fairies came true. 

The Princess grew up so beautiful, modest, 
kind, and clever that every one who saw her 
could not but love her. Now it happened that 
on the very day when she was fifteen years 
old the King and Queen were away from 
home, and the Princess was left alone in the 
castle. She wandered about over the whole 
place, looking at rooms and halls as she 
pleased, and at last she came to an old tower. 
She ascended a narrow winding staircase and 
reached a little door. A rusty key was stick¬ 
ing in the lock, and when she turned it the door 
flew open. In a little room sat an old woman 
with a spindle busily spinning her flax. 

“Good day, Granny,” said the Princess; 
“what are you doing?” 

“I am spinning,” said the old woman, and 
nodded her head. “What is the thing that 
whirls round so merrily?” asked the Princess; 
and she took the spindle and tried to spin too. 

But she had scarcely touched it before the 


BRIER ROSE 


57 


curse was fulfilled, and she pricked her finger 
with the spindle. The instant she felt the 
prick she fell upon the bed which was stand¬ 
ing near, and lay still in a deep sleep which 
spread over the whole castle. 

The King and Queen, who had just come 
home and had stepped into the hall, went to 
sleep, and all their courtiers with them. The 
horses went to sleep in the stable, the dogs in 
the yard, the doves on the roof, the flies on 
the wall; yes, even the fire flickering on the 
hearth grew still and went to sleep, and the 
roast meat stopped crackling; and the cook, 
who was pulling the scullion’s hair because 
he had made some mistake, let him go and 
went to sleep. And the wind dropped, and 
on the trees in front of the castle not a leaf 
stirred. 

But round the castle a hedge of brier roses 
began to grow up; every year it grew higher, 
till at last it surrounded the whole castle so 
that nothing could be seen of it, not even the 
flags on the roof. 

But there was a legend in the land about the 
lovely sleeping Brier Rose, as the King’s 


58 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

daughter was called, and from time to time 
princes came and tried to force a way through 
the hedge into the castle. But they found it 
impossible, for the thorns, as though they had 
hands, held them fast, and the princes re¬ 
mained caught in them without being able 
to free themselves. 

After many, many years a prince came again 
to the country and heard an old man tell of 
the castle which stood behind the brier hedge, 
in which a most beautiful maiden called Brier 
Rose had been asleep for the last hundred 
years, and with her slept the King, Queen, and 
all her courtiers. He knew also, from his 
grandfather, that many princes had already 
come and sought to pierce through the brier 
hedge, and had remained caught in it and died 
a sad death. 

Then the young Prince said: ‘T am not 
afraid; I am determined to go and look upon 
the lovely Brier Rose.” 

The good old man did all in his power to 
dissuade him, but the Prince would not listen 
to his words. 

Now, however, the hundred years were just 


BRIER ROSE 


59 

ended, and the day had come when Brier Rose 
was to wake up again. When the Prince ap¬ 
proached the brier hedge it was in blossom, 
and was covered with beautiful large flowers 
which made way for him of their own accord 
and let him pass unharmed, and then closed 
up again into a hedge behind him. 

In the courtyard he saw the horses and 
dappled hounds lying asleep, on the roof sat 
the doves with their heads under their wings, 
and when he went into the house the flies were 
a^sleep on the walls, and near the throne lay 
the King and Queen; in the kitchen was 
the cook, with his hand raised as though 
about to strike the scullion, and the maid sat 
with the black fowl before her which she was 
about to pluck. 

He went on farther, and all was so still that 
he could hear his own breathing. At last he 
reached the tower, and opened the door into 
the little room where Brier Rose was asleep. 
There she lay, looking so beautiful that he 
could not take his eyes off her; he bent down 
and gave her a kiss. As he touched her. Brier 
Rose opened her eyes and looked quite sweetly 






6o THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


at him. Then they went down together; and 
the King and Queen and all the courtiers 
woke up, and looked at each other with as¬ 
tonished eyes. The horses in the stable stood 
up and shook themselves, the hounds leaped 
about and wagged their tails, the doves on the 
roof lifted their heads from under their wings, 
looked around and flew into the fields; the 
flies on the walls began to crawl again, the fire 
in the kitchen roused itself and blazed up and 
cooked the food, the meat began to crackle, 
and the cook boxed the scullion’s ears so 
soundly that he screamed aloud, while the 
maid finished plucking the fowl. Then the 
wedding of the Prince and Brier Rose was 
celebrated with all splendour, and they lived 
happily till they died. 


PICCIOLA 

Adapted from St. Saintine 


Many years ago a good man, who lived in 
France, was thrown into prison because the 
King suspected him of having plotted against 
the government. 

Within four grey stone walls, with only one 
small window through which the little stream 
of sunshine came, the poor man was kept cap¬ 
tive for months and years. He was not al¬ 
lowed to speak to a living soul except his jailer 
who at best was but a cross old fellow. He 
had no work to do. There were no books to 
read, and his only source of amusement during 
many long tedious hours was drawing pictures 
with a bit of charcoal on the bare stone walls 
of his prison cell. 

Fortunately, however, the poor captive was 
permitted to leave his cell for one hour each 
morning and go up a narrow winding stairway 
which led him into a small courtyard on all 

6i 




62 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


sides of which rose high, strong prison walls. 
There was no roof overhead. Here the pris¬ 
oner could breathe the fresh air and feel the 
warm sun and by looking up he could see a 
bit of the blue sky above. 

Day after day the prison life went on in the 
same round without any change or hope of 
change. The bitterness and loneliness of the 
poor man’s lot grew upon him as months and 
years passed without a word from his family 
or friends and without hope of ever seeing one 
of them again. And by and by a time came 
when he could no longer even find amuse¬ 
ment in sketching upon the walls of his cell, 
for not one vacant spot was left in all that 
space where he could draw a picture. He 
was a very unhappy man indeed, and it is hard 
to say how it might have ended. But one 
day a new interest came into his life—an in¬ 
terest which changed the poor fellow from an 
unhappy bitter man who had come to hate 
everybody and everything, into one who forgot 
all wrong and who learned to see only the good 
and the beautiful in all around him. And this 
interest came about through the growing up 



PICCIOLA 


63 

of a tiny stray seed which had been blown into 
the courtyard by the wind and had taken root 
between two of the great stones with which 
the courtyard was paved. 

It happened that one day as the prisoner was 
taking his daily walk his eyes caught sight of 
the bright green of the little seedling just in 
time to save it from being crushed beneath his 
foot. He stopped and looked closer. Then 
he saw how a little plant had sent down its 
rootlets into the crevice between the stones and 
had struggled to push its head up where its 
green leaves might catch what they could of 
the scant sunshine. He thought how wonder¬ 
ful it was that the little seed had found 
courage to take root and struggle for life in 
the dark and gloomy courtyard of the prison. 
‘^Brave little plant,” he said. ^‘You deserve 
to live. I shall watch over you and guard 
you, for the wind and the hail are hard ene¬ 
mies.” 

Day by day he noticed how bravely it grew 
higher and higher and unfolded one leaf 
after another to the dull sunshine. He be¬ 
came more and more interested in the little 



64 the emerald STORY BOOK 

nursling which in time was like a dear friend 
and companion to him. He called it Picciola, 
which means, “little one,” and before many 
days had passed, it had taken root and grown 
in his own heart so that there was no longer 
room for bitterness or memory of any wrongs. 

At one time when a great hailstorm sent its 
cruel hail into the courtyard, the prisoner bent 
over Picciola to protect it and the driving 
hailstones fell upon his own head until the 
storm was over. 

“My poor little Picciola,” he said, “I shall 
not always be here to guard you from harm. 
Much can happen to my little plant when 
I am in my cell. I will build a little fence 
around you, then the wind cannot blow you 
down nor the hail cut you with sharp stones.” 

The cross jailer, too, took an interest in 
Picciola when he saw how happy the prisoner 
had become and he was glad to help take care 
of the little plant. Somehow, the jailer did 
not seem to be such a cross fellow as before; 
indeed he seemed to be quite a gentle and kind 
hearted man. 


PICCIOLA 


65 

Now the prisoner was very happy and the 
days were no longer weary and without inter¬ 
est for Picciola was always waiting for him in 
the courtyard and he was sure to see something 
new about the little plant each morning he 
visited it. And Picciola grew and grew and 
in time put forth two beautiful blossoms and 
sent perfume to make glad the heart of her 
friend. 

But one morning alas! when the prisoner 
went to look at Picciola he found that, in spite 
of all his care, she had begun to droop and 
wither. What could be the matter? In a 
moment he was on the ground examining the 
little plant to find out what was causing all 
the trouble. He soon discovered that Picciola 
had grown so large that there was no longer 
room enough for it to grow in the crevice 
between the stones. The sharp edges of the 
stones cut into the delicate stem and the poor 
prisoner could see that his little companion 
would die unless the stones could be lifted. 

He was in great distress. He tried with all 
the strength he had to lift the stones himself; 



66 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


but he could not move them. He begged the 
jailer to help him. 

“I can do nothing for you,” said the jailer. 
“You must ask the King; he alone has the 
power to say that the stones should be lifted.” 

“But the King is far away,” said the pris¬ 
oner. “There is but one way to reach him 
—I must write.” 

The poor fellow in despair sent a letter to 
the King begging him to save the life of his 
little friend, Picciola. The letter was written 
on a white handkerchief with a bit of charcoal. 
He begged the King, not for his own freedom 
and life, but for the life of Picciola. As soon 
as the King finished reading the prisoner’s 
letter he said: 

“This man is not really wicked at heart or 
he could not care so much for a little plant. 
The stones shall be raised that the little plant 
may live, and I will pardon this prisoner 
because of his great love and sacrifice for so 
helpless a thing as Picciola.” So the prisoner 
was released and when he left his lonely prison 
cell he took Picciola with him, for she had 
been the beginning for him of a new happiness. 


ST. FRANCIS, THE LITTLE 
BEDESMAN OF CHRIST^ 

William Canton 

To all living things on earth and air and water 
St. Francis was most gracious and loving. 
They were all his little brothers and sisters, 
and he forgot them not, still less scorned or 
slighted them, but spoke to them often and 
blessed them, and in return they showed him 
great love and sought to be of his fellowship. 
He bade his companions keep plots of ground 
for their little sisters- the flowers, and to these 
lovely and speechless creatures he spoke, with 
no great fear that they would not understand 
his words. And all this was a marvellous 
thing in a cruel time, when human life was 
accounted of slight worth by fierce barons and 
ruffling marauders. 

For the bees he set honey and wine in the 

* Taken from “The Child’s Book of Saints,” by permission of 
the publishers, E. P. Dutton & Co. 

67 



68 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


winter, lest they should feel the nip of the cold 
too keenly; and bread for the birds, that they 
all, but especially “my brother Lark,” should 
have joy of Christmastide; and when a youth 
gave St. Francis the turtle-doves he had 
snared, the Saint had nests made for them, and 
there they laid their eggs and hatched them, 
and fed from the hands of the brethren. 

Out of affection a fisherman once gave him 
a great tench, but he put it back into the clear 
water of the lake, bidding it love God; and the 
fish played about the boat till St. Francis 
blessed it and bade it go. 

“Why dost thou torment my little brothers 
the Lambs,” he asked of a shepherd, “carry¬ 
ing them bound thus and hanging from a staff, 
so that they cry piteously?” And in exchange 
for the lambs he gave the shepherd his cloak. 
And at another time seeing amid a flock of 
goats one white lamb feeding, he was con¬ 
cerned that he had nothing but his brown robe 
to offer for it; but a merchant came up and 
paid for it and gave it him, and he took it with 
him to the city and preached about it so that 
the hearts of those hearing him were melted. 


ST. FRANCIS 


69 

Fain would I tell of the coneys that took 
refuge in the folds of his habit, and of the 
swifts which flew screaming in their glee while 
he was preaching; but now it is time to speak 
of the sermon which he preached to a great 
multitude of birds in a field by the roadside. 
Down from the trees flew the birds to hear 
him, and they nestled in the grassy bosom of 
the field, and listened till he had done. And 
these were the words he spoke to them: 

^^Little birds, little sisters mine, much are 
you holden to God your Creator; and at all 
times and in every place you ought to praise 
Him. Freedom He has given you to fly every¬ 
where; and raiment He has given you, double 
and threefold. More than this. He preserved 
your kind in the Ark, so that your race might 
not come to an end. Still more do you owe 
Him for the element of air, which He has 
made your portion. Over and above, you sow 
not, neither do you reap; but God feeds you, 
and gives you streams and springs for your 
thirst; the mountains He gives you, and the 
valleys for your refuge, and the tall trees 
wherein to build your nests. And because you 






70 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

cannot sew or spin God takes thought to clothe 
you, you and your little ones. It must be, 
then, that your Creator loves you much, since 
He has granted you so many benefits. Be on 
your guard then against the sin of ingratitude, 
and strive always to give God praise.” 

And when the Saint ceased speaking, the 
birds made such signs as they might, by spread¬ 
ing their wings and opening their beaks, to 
show their love and pleasure; and when he 
had blessed them, they sprang up, and singing 
songs of unspeakable sweetness, away they 
streamed in a great cross to the four quarters 
of heaven. 



PROSERPINA AND KING PLUTO 

Little Proserpina and Mother Ceres lived in 
the beautiful valley of Enna where the warm 
sun shone all the year round. Mother Ceres 
had plenty of work to do. Each day she made 
a journey to the meadows, orchards, and fields 
all over the earth. Indeed it was through her 
watchful care that the grass grew, and flowers 
bloomed, that the fruit ripened, and the prec¬ 
ious crops of barley, wheat, and rye brought 
forth a bountiful harvest. 

One day at dawn a shining car and a pair of 
restless winged dragons stood waiting to take 
Mother Ceres on her daily journey. The 
dragons were impatient to start, for they knew 
how much work had to be done each day. 
Very soon Ceres glided forth and mounted 
her splendid car. She was clothed in flowing 
robes of the softest grey and on her head she 
71 




72 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

wore a crown of scarlet poppies and golden 
wheat. 

^‘Farewell, little daughter,’’ she called. 
shall come back before the dew falls. Do not 
venture out of the valley to-day. Farewell!” 
Off sped the winged dragons with Mother 
Ceres. Little Proserpina did not mind being 
left in the valley for she found a good deal of 
amusement there. Her friends the naiads— 
beautiful water nymphs—sported about in the 
cool fountains. Proserpina loved to spend a 
quiet hour with these gentle maidens. She 
often played a merry game with Echo, a 
nymph who lived on a far-off wooded hillside; 
sometimes she danced in the sunshine with her 
little playmates. 

Mother Ceres’ shining car soon disappeared 
and little Proserpina ran to some of her com¬ 
panions and said, “Come, come! I hear Pan, 
the shepherd boy, playing the sweetest music 
on his reed-pipes! Let us dance in the sun¬ 
shine! Come!” 

In her gayest mood she led the dance to the 
very edge of a deep wood which bordered the 
valley. Then the train of little maidens 


PROSERPINA 


73 

stopped suddenly and listened. Peals of bois¬ 
terous laughter broke the silence. In the 
depths of the forest the queerest youths were 
rollicking about. They had snub noses, hairy 
ears, and tiny sprouting horns; their hips were 
covered with shaggy hair and their feet were 
exactly like a goat’s. 

^‘Hush,” whispered Proserpina, ^‘the mad¬ 
cap satyrs are dancing too. Let us hasten 
away.” 

^We will gather flowers and make gar¬ 
lands,” said one of the maidens. 

They slipped quietly away from the noisy 
wood and ran about in all directions to search 
for fragrant blossoms,—lilies and violets, 
hyacinth bells and pinks. The little maidens 
soon filled their arms with flowers and sat 
down on a mossy bank to weave garlands. 

In her eagerness to find the loveliest blos¬ 
soms Proserpina had sauntered off a long way 
from her companions. She could hear the 
faint echo of their merry voices in the dis¬ 
tance. 

^‘Oh, I have wandered out of the valley,” 
she thought. “I must hasten back with these 







74 the emerald STORY BOOK 

lovely flowers. What beauties I have found!” 

She turned to run toward the bank where 
her companions were sitting, when she heard a 
queer rumbling noise. What could it be! It 
sounded exactly like distant thunder, yet 
there was not a cloud in the blue sky over¬ 
head. There was another rumbling. Was it 
coming nearer? The earth beneath her feet 
quivered! Then in breathless fear she saw a 
great crack in the field! She was too fright¬ 
ened to move or speak. The flowers she had 
gathered dropped from her trembling hands. 
Out of the great cavity which seemed to widen 
every moment Proserpina saw dashing toward 
her four jet black horses with flashing eyes 
and quivering nostrils. At their heels whirled 
a wonderful golden chariot with jewelled 
wheels. Standing in this splendid car was a 
dark-browed man whose iron-crown was 
studded with precious stones of many colours. 
In one hand he lightly held the reins and 
guided the fiery steeds; in the other, he held 
a two-pronged fork. 

^‘King Pluto!” gasped Proserpina. In a 
twinkling the King of the Underworld leaped 


PROSERPINA 


75 

from his chariot, seized Proserpina in his 
arms, mounted his chariot again and sped away 
over the hills. 

Proserpina’s low cry of ^‘Help! help! 
Mother! Mother Ceres!” was too faint to 
reach the ears of the merry companions who 
were very busy with their flowers. 

‘What has become of Proserpina?” cried 
one of them when she had finished her gar¬ 
land. 

They looked in the direction where but a 
moment ago Proserpina was gathering flow¬ 
ers, but they could not see her. 

“I wonder where she has gone,” said an¬ 
other. “Surely she has not wandered out of 
the valley!” 

“Proserpina! Proserpina!” called the little 
companions becoming alarmed. 

But no answer could come from the cap¬ 
tured maiden who was whirling along beyond 
the distant hills. In vain did the dark-browed 
King try to calm his captive by declaring that 
no harm should come to her. In vain did he 
promise that she should share his throne and 
his riches. 


76 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

want to go home to Mother Ceres,” 
sobbed Proserpina. 

But King Pluto was deaf to her pleading; 
he urged his horses to go faster and faster un¬ 
til finally they came to the River Cyane whose 
waters began to seethe and foam in a very 
threatening manner. Little Proserpina knew 
the waters of this river were angry because 
she was made a captive. Quickly she loosened 
her girdle and flung it into the raging flood. 
Now King Pluto was afraid to risk his fiery 
steeds in the angry stream, so he determined to 
plunge at once into the depths of his kingdom. 
With his two-pronged fork he struck a mighty 
blow on the earth. Instantly a great crevice 
opened and gave him passage to the Under¬ 
world. 

Phoebus Apollo had almost finished his 
day’s journey and was driving his beautiful 
sun-car down the steep slope of the western 
sky. Mother Ceres’ winged dragons were 
hastening to the valley of Enna. Proserpina 
always bounded forth with a cry of welcom.e, 
so when Mother Ceres missed her little daugh¬ 
ter’s joyous words she called, ^Troserpina! 



PROSERPINA 


77 

Proserpina!” There was no answer. What 
could be the matter! Mother Ceres’ heart 
beat fast! She sought the little maidens of the 
valley who were her daughter’s playmates and 
listened in trembling fear to the story they 
told about Proserpina’s sudden disappearance. 
Ceres lighted a torch and continued her search 
all night. At dawn the distracted mother was 
in despair, for she could find no trace of her 
lost child. She questioned the Naiads, the 
Nymphs, Pan, the shepherd boy, and Echo, 
but not one of them could give her tidings of 
Proserpina. For a long time the poor mother 
continued her wanderings from dawn until 
eventide all the world over. 

One day she happened to wander near the 
River Cyane and there floating near the 
water’s edge she saw Proserpina’s girdle. 
Eagerly she grasped it in her hands and stood 
in breathless silence. A low murmuring 
sound reached her ears. Did it come from a 
nearby fountain? Ceres listened very care¬ 
fully. ‘Troserpina! King Pluto!” whisp¬ 
ered a voice from the cool depths of the clear 
water. In a moment Mother Ceres knew the 



78 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

truth about her little daughter’s disappear¬ 
ance. She had been captured by the King of 
the Underworld! Ceres could take no comfort 
in this knowledge for she knew King Pluto 
would do all in his power to keep his captive. 
In despair the poor mother withdrew to a 
dark cave to nurse her grief. 

“Until Proserpina is returned to me no vege¬ 
tation shall grow on the earth,” vowed Mother 
Ceres. 

The gentle rain no longer refreshed the 
grass and drooping flowers; the withered 
leaves dropped from the trees; the fruit be¬ 
came parched and dry, and the precious 
grain failed to ripen! Alas! Famine spread 
throughout the land! 

“Mother Ceres,” cried the people, “we im¬ 
plore you to give us your aid. Bring back 
the flowers and the fruit, and the grain. We 
shall starve without your help.” 

“Not until my child is returned to me,” an¬ 
swered Ceres. 

Finally Jupiter’s heart was touched by the 
distress of the people. He sent for Mother 
Ceres and said, “If your daughter Proserpina 


PROSERPINA 


79 

has refused to eat any of King Pluto’s pome¬ 
granate seeds during her stay in the under¬ 
world she shall return to the earth and never 
again disappear. My swift-footed messenger 
Mercury shall go at once to Pluto’s palace 
and state my will in this matter.” 

Mercury put on his wonderful cap and 
winged sandals and sped away to deliver Jupi¬ 
ter’s message. At first King Pluto was angry 
when he heard that his merry little companion 
was to be taken from him, but of course he 
could not disregard Jupiter’s command, so 
Proserpina was led back into the sunlight. 

How happy Mother Ceres was! She could 
not keep back tears of joy. 

‘^Now the fields shall be covered with ver¬ 
dure ; the soft showers shall fall and earth shall 
bring forth a bountiful harvest!” she declared. 
“Proserpina, my child, you shall never again 
leave me. King Pluto cannot demand your 
return unless you have eaten some of his pome¬ 
granate seeds.” 

Then little Proserpina looked up into her 
mother’s face and said, “Mother dear, I must 
tell you the truth. A little while before Mer- 





8o THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


cury came with his message I ate six of King 
Pluto’s pomegranate seeds. I was very, very 
hungry, mother.” 

^‘Alas! Alas!” cried Ceres, feeling alarmed 
again. She hastened to Jupiter and asked him 
what could be done. Jupiter looked very 
serious, and finally decreed that for each 
pomegranate seed which Proserpina had eaten 
she should spend one month of each year in 
King Pluto’s Kingdom. 

“Six months of each year my child must 
spend in that dark underworld! It is dread¬ 
ful!” declared Ceres. 

“Do not grieve, mother,” said Proserpina 
cheerily. “At first the dark-browed King 
frightened me very much but I soon found 
that he is kind and gracious. Let us be happy 
because I am to spend six months of each year 
here with you. During my stay with King 
Pluto you shall take a long rest from your 
hard work in the fields.” 

So it happened that Proserpina spent half 
of each year in the dark underworld. But 
every springtime when the warm sun glad¬ 
dened the earth. Mercury was sent to bring 






PROSERPINA 


Proserpina back to Mother Ceres. And at 
the coming of the joyous little maiden the 
grass leaped forth in the brown fields, flowers 
gay brightened the meadows and from the tops 
of the budding trees the birds carolled songs 
of welcome. 







THE WONDER—A PARABLE 

Friedrich Adolph Krummacher 

One day in the springtime, a youth was sit¬ 
ting under the palm trees in the garden of his 
father, the King. He was deep in thought. 
There came to him Nathan, the Prophet, say¬ 
ing, ‘‘Prince, why musest thou so earnestly un¬ 
der the palm trees?” 

The Prince lifted his head and answered, 
“Nathan, I would see a wonder.” 

The Prophet smiled and answered: “The 
same wish had I also in the days of my youth.” 

“And was it fulfilled?” asked the King’s 
son, hastily. 

“A Man of God came to me,” said Nathan, 
“having a pomegranate seed in his hand. ‘Be¬ 
hold,’ he said, ‘what will come from this seed.’ 
Then with his finger he made a hole in the 
earth, planted the seed and covered it. When 
he withdrew his hands the clods parted one 
from another and I saw two small leaves com¬ 
ing forth. But scarcely had I beheld them, 

82 



THE WONDER—A PARABLE 83 

when they joined together and became a round 
stem wrapped in bark, and the stem increased 
before my eyes and grew higher and thicker. 
Then the Man of God said to me, ‘Give heed!’ 
And as T looked, I saw many branches spread 
forth from the stem like great arms. I mar¬ 
velled but the Man of God motioned me to 
keep silence. ‘Give heed,’ he said, ‘new crea¬ 
tions begin.’ 

“Then he took water in the hollow of his 
hand from the rivulet by the wayside, and 
sprinkled the branches three times, and, lo, 
the branches were covered with green leaves, 
so that a cool shade spread over us and sweet 
odours filled the air. 

“ ‘From whence comes this perfume and this 
reviving shade?” cried I. 

“ ‘Dost thou not see,’ said the Man of God, 
‘these crimson flowers bursting from among 
the green leaves and hanging in clusters?’ I 
was about to speak but a gentle breeze moved 
the leaves, scattering the flowers among us, 
as when snow descendeth from the clouds. 
Scarcely had the falling flowers reached the 
ground when I saw the ruddy pomegranates 



84 the emerald STORY BOOK 

hanging between the leaves like the almonds 
on Aaron’s rod. Then the Man of God left 
me lost in wonder.” 

‘What is the name of this Man of God? Is 
he yet alive?” 

“Son of David,” answered the Prophet, “I 
have spoken to thee of a vision.” 

When the Prince heard these words he was 
grieved in his heart. 

“How couldst thou deceive me thus?” he 
asked. 

But the Prophet replied, “I have not de¬ 
ceived thee. Behold in thy father’s garden 
thou mayest see in reality what I have told 
thee. Dost not this same wonder happen to 
the pomegranate trees and all the other trees 
in the garden?” 

“Yes,” answered the Prince, “but you can¬ 
not see it, and it comes to pass through a long 
time.” 

“Is it less wonderful because it cometh to 
pass in silence and unheeded? Learn to know 
nature and her workings, then wilt thou long 
no more for a wonder performed by the hand 
of man.” 



NATURE STORIES AND LEGENDS 



GREEN THINGS GROWING 


Oh, the green things growing, the green things growing. 
The faint sweet smell of the green things growing! 

I should love to live, whether I smile or grieve. 

Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing. 

Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things 
growing. 

How they talk to each other, when none of us are know¬ 
ing. 

In the wonderful white by the weird moonlight. 

Of the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing. 

I love them so—my green things growing. 

And I think they love me without any knowing; 

For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much. 
With the soft mute comfort of green things growing. 

Dinah Mulock Craik, 


THE STORY OF A LITTLE 
GRAIN OF WHEAT ^ 

May Byron 

Once upon a time there was a little grain of 
Wheat. It was a tiny brown thing, quite hard 
and dry. It looked like somebody who had 
wrapped himself up in a cloak and gone to 
sleep, with his head and feet and all covered 
up. That was really what had happened. 
The grain of Wheat was fast asleep. 

It lay outside a farm-yard gate, and a little 
black ant came along and saw it. ‘‘Dear me!” 
said the little black ant, “that will do nicely 
for my dinner.” He was carrying it off— 
which was hard work, because it was nearly as 
big as he was—^when another little black ant 
came along. 

“Fll help you to carry that if you’ll give me 
half,” said the second ant. “Shan’t!” said 

* By special permission The Oxford Press, London. 

87 


88 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


the first. Then, I am sorry to say, they fought 
about it. 

While they were biting and kicking, and 
the grain of Wheat was rolling about between 
them, a third person came along. 

The third person was a little Elf-man. He 
was looking about for winter lodgings: and 
he had just found a capital place in a hollow 
tree at the edge of a field. 

“Shocking! shocking!” said he to the two 
fighting ants. “Do stop, for goodness’ sake!” 
But they did not take the least notice of him. 

Then the little Elf-man thought, “If I take 
that grain of Wheat away, they won’t have 
anything left to quarrel about!” And so he 
did. 

The little Elf-man took the grain of Wheat 
very carefully home to his hollow tree. But 
when he arrived, it was all dark, because his 
tame glow-worm, that he kept for a candle, 
had felt lonely and gone out for a walk. He 
bumped his head trying to find things in the 
dark, and dropped the grain of Wheat; and it 


A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT 89 

rolled out of the tree and down into a tiny 
chink of the earth. 

The little Elf-man was dreadfully sorry at 
losing it, and scolded the glow-worm when it 
came home. He spent many hours searching 
for the grain next morning. 

^‘What are you looking for?” said his friend 
the Dormouse. The Dormouse lived in a hole 
in the hedge-bank. 

‘‘For a grain I’ve lost,” said the Elf. 

“There’s a Barley grain under that loose 
sod,” remarked the Dormouse. 

“That’s not it, thank you,” said the Elf-man. 
And he went on hunting; but he had no suc¬ 
cess. It was ever so deep down. 

A good many days went by, and several 
things happened,—rain, and wind, and sun¬ 
shine, and more rain, and snow, and frost, and 
rain again. 

They all came down to where the little 
grain lay underground; and its nice brown 
cloak did not remain smooth and dry. It be¬ 
came damp and sodden and dirty. Its ap¬ 
pearance was certainly not improved 





90 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

Now, if you got all wet and cold while 
you were asleep, supposing the wind and rain 
blew in on you, it would wake you up, most 
likely. So it fell out to the little grain of 
Wheat. 

It woke up one day, inside its wet ragged 
cloak, and thrust out its small white 
feet. They were not like your feet, they were 
more like little roots—but they did very well 
for the Wheat. Its legs grew longer, week 
by week, and it grew more and more awake 
every day. 

The more it waked, the less it liked being 
down there in the dark and cold. It thought, 
^‘Really, I can’t stay here all my life! There’s 
nothing to look at!” 

But whenever it wanted to poke its head up 
and peep out, the wind made it shiver and feel 
miserable. So it stayed where it was, and 
tried to be contented. One can always try, 
anyhow. 

Meanwhile the little Barley-corn under the 
loose sod was getting on rather badly. You 
see, it had not been tucked cosily into the soil 
like the Wheat. It was like a poor little 


A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT 91 

vagrant with no proper place to sleep in. It 
grew, but very slowly. 

“Hullo! is that you?” said the Dormouse, 
peeping in one day under the sod; “are you 
awake?” 

“I don’t think I’ve been properly to sleep,” 
said the Barley-corn. 

“Make haste and grow a little faster, and 
come out of that,” said the Dormouse. “I 
should be rather fond of you if I thought you 
were taking trouble to get on.” 

“I think if any one were fond of me,” whisp¬ 
ered the Barley-corn, “I should grow,'* 

But the Dormouse was not listening. 

At last a sunbeam came along the field— 
several sunbeams, in fact. They were quite 
bright and warm, and the little Elf-man, who 
had kept close indoors all the bad weather, 
opened his door and sat on the threshold bask¬ 
ing. Then the sunbeams burrowed right 
down into the earth, and said: “Hurry up! 
Is anybody here for out-of-doors?” 

You could not have heard them; their voices 
were not like ours. But the grain of Wheat 


92 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

heard them. At once it threw off the last rags 
of its tattered old cloak; and it was as clean 
and white as possible underneath. Then it 
pushed up its little green head, with a two¬ 
horned peaked cap on, and looked out curi¬ 
ously upon the world. 

Everything was clear, and warm, and sunny, 
and perfectly delightful. And there was the 
little Elf-man sitting on his threshold, in a 
ow^-horned peaky green cap. 

^Well, I never!” said the Elf-man. 
^Who’s this?” 

“My name’s Wheat,” said the little green 
head. 

“Then you’ve changed very much, let me 
tell you,” said the Elf-man; “you are not a 
bit like what you were; but ever so much 
better.” 

“I hope I shall go on improving,” said the 
Wheat politely. And that is just what it ac¬ 
tually did. 

But the poor Barley-corn was only begin¬ 
ning to push through under the loose sod by 
the time the Wheat was six inches high. It 
was thin and stunted, just as you would be 


A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT 93 

if you had no proper food, and nobody to be 
fond of you. 

The Wheat took no notice of it. But the 
Dormouse came now and then and said, “How 
slow you are!” The little Elf-man was 
rather sorry for it, but it did not occur to him 
to say so. 

The little Elf-man came out every day, and 
talked to the Wheat while it grew. Very soon 
it was much bigger than he was; but this did 
not make him conceited. 

“Did you have nice dreams while you were 
down below there?” he asked it. 

“I only had one dream,” said the Wheat, 
“but that went on all the time. I dreamed 
I was very tall and golden-yellow, and lived 
along with a crowd of brothers and sisters.” 

“Oh, but you didn’t,” said the Elf-man; “I 
found you all by yourself. You were a poor 
little lonely brown thing.” 

“I can’t help it,” said the Wheat: “that was 
my dream. And I have it now, sometimes, 
if I shut my eyes.” 

The little Elf-man was greatly puzzled: 


94 the emerald STORY BOOK 

but the Wheat was now so tall that he did not 
like to contradict. 

As for the little Barley-corn, nobody took 
the least interest in his dreams. He had very 
delightful ones, too. But they were the kind 
that never come true. 

The summer went on, and all sorts of friends 
came and talked to the Wheat—birds, bees, 
and butterflies. He enjoyed himself more 
and more. The taller he grew, the better 
view he had of the rest of the world. 

He had very pretty green clothes, which 
grew bigger as he did. This was a really use¬ 
ful arrangement: he never required to be 
measured for a new suit. 

One day he said to the little Elf-man, “Do 
your clothes change colour?” 

“No,” replied the Elf-man, “I always wear 
green. Even in the winter I can find some 
blades of grass to weave together, or a few 
leaves to stitch up into a coat.” 

“You don’t understand me,” said the Wheat. 
“I mean, do they turn to a different colour 
while you’re wearing them?” 


A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT 95 

^‘Not that I know of,” said the Elf-man. 

“Well, mine do,” said the Wheat. “Just 
look!” 

Sure* enough, his green clothes were turn¬ 
ing yellow, and he was changing colour all 
over, too. He was very much altered alto¬ 
gether. It was most surprising. 

“Goodness me!” said the little Elf-man. 

“That’s exactly what I think,” said the 
Wheat. 

About a month after this, the Elf-man was 
getting his breakfast ready,—an acorn-cup 
full of dew, and a drop of wild honey,—when 
he heard a loud, eager voice calling him. It 
was the Wheat, very much excited. 

“I’ve had that dream several times lately,” 
said the Wheat, rocking to and fro, “and now 
it has come true!” 

“How do you mean?” asked the Elf-man. 

“Can’t you see?” said the Wheat. “I’ve 
turned golden-yellow from head to foot. And 
I have a whole family of children. They’re 
not my brothers and sisters, of course, but 



96 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

they’re each other’s,—so it comes to the same 
thing. Dear, dear, how happy I do feel!” 
And it rocked more than ever. 

“How many are there?” asked the Elf. 

“About twenty, I should think,” answered 
the Wheat, “but I can’t count them without 
cricking my neck.” 

“Well, well!” said the little Elf. “It’s a 
large family to look after. It reminds me of a 
little rhyme I once heard, about an old woman 
who lived in a shoe.” 

“The more the merrier,” said the Wheat. 
“Hush, children! Don’t all talk at once!” 
But the little grains would not stop talking 
all at once; and although you could not have 
heard them—their voices were too tinkly and 
tiny—it was perfectly deafening to any one 
who could. 

The Elf-man went back into his house and 
shut the door. Presently he had to put some 
cotton-willow-wool in his ears. The Wheat 
tried to sing its children to sleep with lulla¬ 
bies; but it did not know any. 

“I shall never have a merry family like that. 
I’m afraid,” said the Barley-corn to the Dor- 


A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT 97 

mouse. The Barley-corn had hardly grown 
two inches since the spring. In fact, he was 
so little, you would hardly have known he was 
there. 

“Never mind,” said the Dormouse. “You 
have me to talk to you, haven’t you?” 

By and by the Wheat got very tired. Just 
think, if your mother had more than twenty 
children, who never stopped talking all day 
and all night! Anyhow, the Wheat could en¬ 
dure it no longer. So it called to the little 
Elf-man, and said, “Kindly fetch me the Dor¬ 
mouse. I can see him now, on the bank at 
the end of the field. He’s beginning to get 
sleepy, too, so please make haste.” 

“What do you want me for?” said the Dor¬ 
mouse, when he was fetched. He and the 
Elf stood staring up at the tall Wheat. The 
little grains were quieter now. They had said 
nearly all they had to say. 

“It’s like this,” said the Wheat in weary 
tones. “I can’t rock these children to sleep up 
here. It’s too light, and too draughty. They 
must be put to bed in the earth, as I was. I’m 





98 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

sure it’s the proper place for them.” As the 
Wheat spoke, all the little grains fell suddenly 
fast asleep. 

‘‘Well, I’m not a nurse,” said the Dormouse, 
rather grumpily, because he had been dis¬ 
turbed. “And I can’t climb your stalk and 
fetch them down, either.” 

“You must bite my stalk right through,” 
said the Wheat, “so that we can all lie down 
together.” 

“Oh, that will hurt you dreadfully!” cried 
the little Elf-man. 

“Then it will have to hurt, that’s all,” said 
the Wheat. “It’s the only thing to do. Be 
quick!” 

The little Elf-man threw his arms round 
the Wheat’s yellow-stalk, and wept. But the 
Dormouse, with his sharp little teeth, bit 
through the stalk, just where it came out of the 
ground. The Wheat gave one great rock— 
and one sigh—and SNAP!—down it came. 
All the little grains tumbled out of their 
cradles, and rolled into chinks of the soil. 

The tall Wheat, as it lay in the earth, said 
“Thank you!” in a husky voice to the Dor- 


A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT 99 

mouse, and ^‘Good-bye!” to the little Elf-man. 
The wind blew it away that night, and nobody 
ever saw it again. 

‘‘Where’s the Barley?” asked the Dormouse 
next day. But the poor Barley was quite 
shrivelled up. 

The little Elf-man was sad for nearly a 
week. But when all the little grains woke up 
the following spring, he had a jollier time than 


ever. 



THE LITTLE ACORN 

Lucy Wheelock 


It was a little acorn that hung on the bough 
of a tree. It had a tender green cup and a 
beautifully carved saucer to hold it. The 
mother oak fed it with sweet sap every day, 
the birds sang good-night songs above it, and 
the wind rocked it gently to and fro. The 
oak leaves made a soft green shade above it, 
so the sun could not shine too warm on its 
green cover, and it was as happy as an acorn 
could be. 

There were many other acorns on the tree, 
and I am sure the mother often whispered 
loving words to all her babies. 

The summer days were so bright and pleas¬ 
ant that the acorn never thought of anything 
but sunshine and an occasional shower to wash 
the dust off the leaves. 

But you know that summer ends and the 
autumn days come. The green cup of the 
100 


THE LITTLE ACORN 


lOI 


acorn turned to a brown cup, and it was well 
that it grew stiffer and harder, for the cold 
winds began to blow. 

The leaves turned from green to golden 
brown, and some of them were whisked away 
by the rough wind. The little acorn began 
to grow uneasy. 

^‘Isn’t life all summer?” it said. 

“No,” whispered the mother oak, “the cold 
days come and the leaves must- go and the 
acorns too. I must soon lose my babies.” 

“Oh! I could never leave this kind bough,” 
said the frightened acorn. “I should be lost 
and forgotten if I were to fall.” 

So it tried to cling all the closer to its bough; 
but at last it was alone there. The leaves 
were blown away, and some of them had made 
a blanket for the brown acorns lying on the 
ground. 

One night the tree whispered this message 
to the lonely acorn: “This tree is only your 
home for a time. This is not your true life. 
Your brown shell is only the cover for a liv¬ 
ing plant, which can never be set free until 
the hard shell drops away, and that can never 





102 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


happen until you are buried in the ground and 
wait for the spring to call you into life. So let 
go, little acorn, and fall to the ground, and 
some day you will wake to a new and glori¬ 
ous life.” 

The acorn listened and believed, for was 
not the tree its sheltering mother? So it bade 
her farewell, and. loosing its hold, dropped 
to the ground. 

Then, indeed, it seemed as if the acorn were 
lost. That night a high wind blew and cov¬ 
ered it deep under a heap of oak leaves. The 
next day a cold rain washed the leaves closer 
together, and trickling streams from the hill¬ 
side swept some earth over them. The acorn 
was buried. ‘‘But I shall wake again,” it 
said, and so it fell asleep. It might have been 
cold; but the frost fairies wove a soft, white 
snow blanket to cover it, and so it was kept 
warm. 

If you had walked through the woods that 
winter, you would have said the acorn was 
gone, but then you could not have seen the 
life slumbering within the brown cover. But 
spring came and called to all the sleeping 





THE LITTLE ACORN 


103 

things underground to waken and come forth. 
The acorn heard and tried to move, but the 
brown shell held it fast. Some raindrops 
trickled through the ground to moisten the 
shell, and one day the pushing life within 
was set free. The brown shell was of no more 
use and was lost in the ground, but the young 
plant was to live. It heard voices calling it 
upward. It must arise. ‘‘A new and glori¬ 
ous life,” the mother oak had said. 

‘T must arise,” the acorn said, and up the 
living plant came, up to the world of sunshine 
and beauty. It looked around. There was 
the same green moss in the woods, the same 
singing brook. 

‘‘And I shall live and grow,” it said. 

“Yes,” called the mother oak, “you are now 
an oak tree. This is your real life.” 

And the tiny oak tree was glad and tried to 
stretch higher towards the sun. 






THE STORY OF TWO LITTLE SEEDS 

George MacDonald 

Long, long ago, two seeds lay beside each 
other in the earth, waiting. It was cold, and 
rather wearisome and, to beguile the time, 
the one found means to speak to the other. 

“What are you going to be?” said the one. 

“I don’t know,” answered the other. 

“For me,” rejoined the first, “I mean to be 
a rose. There is nothing like a splendid rose. 
Everybody will love me then.” 

“It’s all right,” whispered the second; and 
that was all he could say; for somehow when 
he had said that, he felt as if all the words in 
the world were used up. So they were silent 
again for a day or two. 

“Oh, dear!” cried the first, “I have had some 
water. I never knew till it was inside me. 
I’m growing! I’m growing! Good-bye!” 

“Good-bye!” repeated the other, and lay 
still; and waited more than ever. 

104 


TWO LITTLE SEEDS 105 

The first grew and grew, pushing itself 
straight up, till at last it felt that it was in the 
open air, for it could breathe. And what a 
delicious breath that was! It was rather cold, 
but so refreshing. The flower could see noth¬ 
ing, for it was not quite a flower yet, only a 
plant; and they never see till their eyes come, 
that is, till they open their blossoms,—then 
they are flowers quite. So it grew and grew, 
and kept its head up very steadily, meaning to 
see the sky the first thing, and leave the earth 
quite behind as well as beneath it. But some¬ 
how or other, though why it could not tell, 
it felt very much inclined to cry. At length 
it opened its eye. It was morning, and the 
sky was over its head but, alas! itself was no 
rose,—only a tiny white flower. It felt more 
inclined to hang down its head and to cry 
but it still resisted, and tried hard to open its 
eye wide, and to hold its head upright, and to 
look full at the sky. 

^T will be a star of Bethlehem, at least!’’ said 
the flower to itself. 

But its head felt very heavy and a cold 
wind rushed over it, and bowed it down to- 






io6 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


wards the earth. And the flower saw that the 
time of the singing of birds was not come, 
that the snow covered the whole land, and that 
there was not a single flower in sight but it¬ 
self. And it half-closed its leaves. But that 
instant it remembered what the other flower 
used to say; and it said to itself, “It’s all right; 
I will be what I can.” And thereon it yielded 
to the wind, dropped its head to the earth, and 
looked no more on the sky, but on the snow. 
And straightway the wind stopped, and the 
cold died away, and the snow sparkled like 
pearls, and diamonds; and the flower knew 
that it was the holding of its head up that had 
hurt it so; for that its body came of the snow, 
and that its name was Snow-drop. And so it 
said once more, “It’s all right!” and waited in 
perfect peace. All the rest it needed was to 
hang its head afte^ its nature. 




HOW THE FLOWERS CAME * 

Jay T. Stocking 

Ever so many centuries ago the world was 
bare and grey as the street. The Earth King 
grew very tired of it, and covered the earth 
with a beautiful carpet of green. We call it 
grass. For years and years there was nothing 
but green, until the Earth King grew as tired 
of the green as he had grown of the grey. He 
decided that he must have more colours. So 
one day he took his royal retinue and journeyed 
to a hillside where he knew there grew the very 
finest grasses in all the kingdom. At a blast 
of the King’s bugler the grasses assembled, 
and the King addressed them in simple words: 
^‘My faithful grasses. It is many years since 
I placed you here. You have been faithful. 
You have kept true green. It now pleases 
me to announce to you that I am about to re¬ 
ward a certain number of you and make you 

* By special permission The Pilgrim Press. 

107 


io8 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


to be lords and ladies of the field. To-mor¬ 
row I shall come hither at this same hour. 
You are to assemble before me, and the fairest 
of your number and the most pleasing I will 
honour with great and lasting honour. Fare¬ 
well.” 

Then what a whispering and putting of 
heads together there was among the grasses, 
as the breeze crept up the hillside. They 
arose next morning before the sun, that they 
might w^sh their ribbons in the gleaming 
pearls of dew. What prinking and preen¬ 
ing! What rustling of ruffles and sashes! 
What burnishing of armour and spears! At 
length the King’s bugle rang out that called 
them to the grand assembly. Full of excite¬ 
ment, they stood before the King, each hop¬ 
ing that he might be chosen for one of the 
great honours. 

The King greeted them as on the previous 
day, and told them again of the high honour 
that he was about to bestow. ^‘But,” said he, 
“ in this Court of Judgment I must have will¬ 
ing servants to assist me. First, I must have a 
keeper of the gate so that no outsider may 


HOW THE FLOWERS CAME 109 

enter. Which one of this host will be keeper 
of the gate?” 

Not a man-grass stirred in his tracks, for 
each feared that if he became a servant of the 
King, he would lose his chance to be made a 
lord. 

Which one?” asked the King again; 
^‘which one will volunteer to keep the gate for 
me?” 

At this moment a sturdy grass was seen com¬ 
ing down the hillside. He was not handsome, 
but he was strong, his shoulders were broad, 
and his chest was deep, and he was armed to 
the teeth. Spear points stuck from every 
pocket, arrows filled his belt, and in each hand 
he carried a lance sharp as lightning. ‘‘Let 
these wait for their honours,” thought he, as 
he said, ''I will serve the King.” 

“So be it,” said the King; “take your station 
at the gate. And now,” continued the King, 
“I must have a herald to announce my awards 
and my commands. Who will be my her¬ 
ald?” 

Again there was silence among the man- 
grasses, till at last one of them was seen to ad- 


no THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


vance. He was short and round and smiling, 
as happy a grass as grew on the hill. He 
came before the King as fast as his short legs 
could carry him. “So it please the King, I’ll 
be his royal herald.” 

“So be it,” replied the King. “Stand here 
at my feet.” 

“Two torch-bearers I need,” said the King; 
“two torch-bearers, tall and comely, to hold 
the lights on high. Who will serve the King 
as torch-bearers?” 

And now there was silence and stiffness 
among the lady-grasses, as each, fearing to lose 
her chance to be made a lady, waited for the 
others. At length two slender maidens ad¬ 
vanced with glowing faces and hesitant step. 
They were not as beautiful, it must be said, as 
some of their sisters. Their ribbons were few 
and some of them frayed. They scarcely 
knew whether the King would accept them, 
but they meekly offered themselves. “We, O 
King, will be your torch-bearers.” 

The King looked pleased enough as he re¬ 
plied, “So be it, indeed. Stand here on either 
hand.” 


HOW THE FLOWERS CAME iii 


“And now,” continued the King, ‘T must 
have an incense bearer, to swing my censer 
over the meadows. Who will be my incense 
bearer?” 

For a moment there was silence again 
among the lady-grasses, but only a moment, 
for out stepped one of the daintiest of them all. 
She tripped quickly and quietly down the hill 
to the King, saying modestly as she ap¬ 
proached, “I will be your incense bearer.” 

“Let it be so,” said the King. “Await my 
commands.” 

“Yet one more willing servant,” said the 
King; “one more. Who will ring the chimes ? 
Man or maid, who among all these loyal sub¬ 
jects will ring the chimes?” 

Scarcely had the King’s words left his lips, 
when one of the noblest grasses of all, her 
broad green ribbons rustling as she moved, 
left the crowded ranks of the ladies and ea¬ 
gerly advanced before the King. “If it please 
Your Majesty, I will ring the chimes.” 

Then the King looked around satisfied upon 
his eager and expectant audience, and spoke 
a few brief words to them. He had come. 



112 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


he said, fearing that the task was almost too 
great even for a king—to choose among so 
many and so beautiful subjects. But they had 
chosen for themselves, and he had now only 
to award the honours. 

“Keeper of the gate,” he commanded, 
“stand before the King!” 

The keeper of the gate came awkwardly 
forward, pricking all who brushed against 
him as he passed. 

“Because you have been willing to serve the 
King,” said the monarch, “I reward you with 
distinguished honour.” Then, taking from 
the hand of a page a great velvet cap of pur¬ 
plish red, he placed it upon the head of the 
Gate-Keeper, saying as he did so, “I dub you: 
My Lord, the Thistle.” 

“Let the King’s herald stand forth!” 

The little round happy herald obeyed and 
knelt before the King. The King took a great 
golden coronet from the hand of a page and 
placed it upon his head, saying as he did so, 
“Because of your readiness to serve your 
King, I create you a noble of the field, and 


HOW THE FLOWERS CAME 113 

dub you: My Lord, the Dandelion. And I 
give you this trumpet on which to blow.” 

“Let the torch-bearers stand forth!” 

Then the two shy maidens from either side 
of the King bowed before him. On the head 
of each the King placed a shining crown, one 
all gold, and one gold rimmed with white, 
that they might not be confused, and he said 
to them, “Because of your generous deed I 
dub you: Lady Buttercup and Lady Daisy.” 

“My incense bearer!” 

The dainty maiden courtesied at his feet 
and, blushing, bowed her head. 

The King beckoned to a page, who brought 
him a tiny hood of most becoming blue. This 
the King placed upon her head, saying the 
while: “The King is grateful for your serv¬ 
ice. I dub you: Lady Violet.” 

“The ringer of the royal chimes, let her ap¬ 
pear.” 

The beautiful grass with the broad, shining 
ribbons stood proudly before him, and bowed 
her head in salute. The King took a silver 
bell and gave it to her, saying as he did so. 





114 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

^This shall be the sign of your royal office. 
I dub you: Lady Lily-of-the-Field.” 

The King then charged his new-made lords 
and ladies that they should be faithful to 
their offices and never cease, year by year, to 
beautify the earth. Then the assembly was 
dissolved, but not until the whole host of 
grasses on the hillside had applauded what 
the King had done. They were disappointed 
and grieved, it is true, but they were not too 
jealous to know that the bravest and truest and 
most beautiful had been crowned with honour 
due. 


THE LEGEND OF TRAILING 
ARBUTUS 


The bleak wind swept across the great lakes 
and piled snow-drifts all around a wigwam 
which stood at the edge of a pine forest. An 
Indian pulled aside a curtain of wolf-skin and 
stood listening in the doorway of his rude 
house. His dark eyes were fixed on the 
richly-tinted western sky. Long hair white 
as the frost fell about his bent shoulders and 
framed a thin dark face deeply lined with 
wrinkles. 

“I thought I heard footsteps,” he muttered 
in a weak voice. He drew a deerskin mantle 
close about his shoulders, turned from the 
doorway and sat down on a mat of beaver fur 
which lay before a few dying embers. A 
shiver ran through his gaunt figure. He 
stirred the smouldering ashes and threw some 
dried sticks into the small flame. 

“How weak and weary I am to-night,” he 



ii6 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


thought. ^‘What has become of the hunter’s 
game? I could find none in the forest to¬ 
day.” His head drooped forward and he fell 
asleep. 

At sunrise he was aroused by a flood of light 
in the wigwam. He looked up and saw stand¬ 
ing in the doorway a beautiful maiden, clad 
in a robe of sweet-grass and ferns. Her 
moccasins were made of velvet mosses, and the 
fairest blossoms were entwined in her long 
dark hair. She carried an armful of bud¬ 
ding twigs. 

“Who art thou?” cried the old man. 

“I am the Spring Manito,” she answered, 
merrily. 

“Then thou wilt perish here,” said the old 
man, “for alas! I have no cheer to offer thee!” 

“Art thou the great Winter Manito?” asked 
the maiden. 

“I am the great Winter Manito! Thou 
hast no doubt heard of my power. At my 
command the North Wind rushes madly 
through the forest and the giant trees bow be¬ 
fore him as he twists and tears their branches.” 


TRAILING ARBUTUS 


117 

“Cruel Manito,” sighed the maiden, but the 
old man did not hear her. 

“I cover the pine-trees with sleet and drive 
the birds southward. With my sceptre of ice 
I silence the brooks and rivers. My breath 
turns the dew into frost. I shake my locks 
and a face-cloth of snow covers the withered 
leaves and blossoms. Mighty is the Winter 
Manito!” 

“Mighty is the Winter Manito,” repeated 
the Maiden, sadly. “But my power is greater 
than his!” 

“What meanest thou?” asked the old man 
quickly. 

“At my call the soft breezes from the South 
caress the trees and heal the wounds the Win¬ 
ter Manito has made. My warm breath 
turns the frost into dew; my golden wand 
melts the frozen streams and their waters flow 
again toward the sea. I shake my tresses and 
the gentle rain falls; then the velvet buds burst 
forth and the birds hasten back to build their 
nests and to sing in the leafy branches. 
Where I walk in the fields and meadows the 


ii8 THE EMERALD SJORY BOOK 


grass and blossoms spring forth to greet me. 
The children of the red men rejoice in the 
beauty which I bring to gladden the earth. 
The Winter Manito is mighty but his is the 
power of cruelty; the Spring Manito is strong, 
and hers is the strength of kindness. The 
Winter Manito’s sceptre is the biting frost; 
his rule brings pain and death; the Spring 
Manito bears the golden wand of sunshine 
and her hand-maidens bring joy and life.” 

As she spoke the maiden noticed that the 
old man grew weaker and weaker until he 
finally sank down on the floor of his lodge. A 
flood of sunshine filled the wigwam. The 
Winter Manito grew smaller and smaller un¬ 
til he disappeared. Then the old man’s tent 
faded away and left the maiden standing un¬ 
der a tree. The sunshine had melted the 
snowdrifts, and a warm breeze was blowing. 

The maiden stooped down and brushed 
away the dried leaves which had lain all win¬ 
ter under the snow. Then she enamelled the 
brown earth about her feet with star-like blos¬ 
soms, pink and white, and shining green 
leaves. 


TRAILING ARBUTUS 119 

“My precious Arbutus,” she whispered, 
bending low, “thou art born to bring joy to 
the children of the red men and thou shalt 
trail after me through the pine-forest and 
over the distant hilltops.” 

She moved quickly through the woods and 
across the meadows. “Spring has . come,” 
whispered the trees and flowers. “Spring has 
come,” sang the birds. Wherever she stepped 
the lovely Arbutus trailed after her on its deli¬ 
cate rosy vine and scented the air with sweet¬ 
est fragrance. 








THE FAIRY FLOWER* 

Henry Ward Beecher 

Once there was a little girl whose name was 
Clara. She had a very kind heart; but she 
was an only child and had been petted so much 
that she was becoming very selfish. Too late 
the mother lamented that she had indulged 
her child, and strove to repair the mischief by 
trying to make Clara think of other people’s 
happiness, not solely of her own. 

On some days, no one could be more charm¬ 
ing than Clara. She was gentle and obliging. 
She sang all day long, and made every one 
who came near her happy. Then everybody 
admired her, and her mother and aunt were 
sure that she was cured of her pettish disposi¬ 
tion. But the very next day all her charming 
ways were changed. She wore a moody face. 
She was no longer courteous, and every one 

*By courtesy of The Ben. H. Sanborn Co. 


120 


THE FAIRY FLOWER 121 

who came near her felt the chill of her man¬ 
ner. 

One summer’s night, Clara went to her 
room. The moon was at its full, and was 
shining through the window so brightly that 
she needed no other light. Clara sat at the 
window feeling very unhappy. She was 
thinking over her conduct through the day, 
and was trying to imagine how it could be 
that on some days she was happy and on 
others so wretched. 

As she mused, she laid her head back on the 
easy chair. No sooner had she shut her 
eyes than a strange thing happened. A feeble 
old man, carrying a basket, came into the 
room. In his basket, which he seemed hardly 
able to bear, were a handful of flowers and 
two great stones. 

“My daughter,” said the old man, “will 
you help me for I am too old to carry this 
load; please lighten it.” Clara looked at 
him, pouting, and exclaimed, “Go away!” 

“But I am weak and suffering,” he said; 
“will you not lighten my load?” At last 
Clara took the flowers out of his basket. 





122 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


They were very beautiful and she laid them 
in her lap. 

“My daughter,” said the old man, “you have 
not lightened my basket; you have taken only 
the pleasant things out of it, and have left the 
heavy stones. Please lift one of them out of 
the basket.” 

“Go away!” exclaimed Clara angrily. “I 
will not touch those dirty stones!” 

No sooner had she said this than the old 
man began to change before her and to become 
so bright and white that he looked like a 
column of crystal. He took one of the stones 
and cast it out of the window, and it flew and 
flew, and fell on the eastern side of a grove 
where the sun shone first every morning. 

Then the crystal old man took the flowers 
out of Clara’s lap. They were wet with dew, 
and he shook them over her head and ex¬ 
claimed, “Change into a flower! Go and 
stand by the stone till your shadow shall be 
marked upon it.” 

In a second, Clara was growing by the side 
of the wide, flat stone, and the moon cast upon 
it her shadow,—the shadow of a beautiful 


THE FAIRY FLOWER 


123 

flower with a long and slender stem. All 
night she was very wretched. In the morn¬ 
ing, she could not help looking at herself in 
a brook which came close up to the stone; 
then she recognised the beautiful flower and 
knew that her name was now Columbine. 

All day her shadow fell upon the stone, but 
when the sun went away, the shadow, too, 
went away. At night her faint shadow lay 
upon the stone but when the moon went away, 
her shadow, also, went away. And the stone 
lay still all day and all night, and did not care 
for the flower nor feel its shadow. 

Clara longed to be a little girl again. She 
asked the stone to tell her how, but the hard 
stone would not answer. She asked the 
brook, but the brook whispered, “Ask the 
Bobolink!” She asked the Bobolink, but he 
merely alighted upon the flower and teetered 
up and down. She could not learn from the 
Bobolink how to make her shadow stay upon 
the stone. 

Then she asked a spider and he spun a web 
from her bright blossoms, fastened it to the 
stone, bent her over, and tied her up, till she 





124 the emerald story book 

feared she could never get loose. But all his 
nice films did her no good; her shadow 
would not stay upon the stone. 

She asked the wind to help her. The wind 
swept away the spider’s web, and blew so hard 
that the flower lay its whole length upon the 
stone; but when the wind left her and she 
rose up, there was no shadow marked upon 
the stone. 

“What is beauty worth,” thought Clara, “if 
it grows by the side of a stone that does not 
feel it, nor care for it?” 

She asked the dew to help her. And the 
dew said, “How can I help you! I live con¬ 
tentedly in darkness, I put on my beauty only 
to please others. I let the sun come through 
my drops, though I know it will consume me.” 

“I wish I were dew,” said Clara, “for then, 
I, too, could do some good. Now my beauty 
does no good, and I am wasting it every day 
upon a stone.” When Clara breathed this 
kind wish, there were glad flutters and whis¬ 
pers all around. 

The next day a beautiful child came that 


THE FAIRY FLOWER 


125 


way. She was gathering ferns, and mosses, 
and flowers. Whenever she saw a tuft of 
moss, she would ask, “Please, dear moss, may 
I take you?” And when she saw a beautiful 
branch with scarlet leaves, she would ask, 
“Dear bush, may I take these leaves?” 

When she saw the beautiful columbine 
growing by the side of a stone, she asked, 
“Oh, sweet Columbine, may I pluck you?” 
And the fairy flower said, gently, “I must not 
go till my shadow is fastened upon the stone.” 

Then the girl took from her case a pencil 
and in a moment traced the shadow of the 
columbine upon the stone. When she had 
done this, she reached out her hand, took the 
stem low down, and broke it off. 

At that moment Clara sprang up from her 
chair by the window, and there stood her 
mother saying, “My dear daughter, you should 
not fall asleep by an open window, not even 
in summer. How damp you are! Come, 
hasten to bed.” 

It was many days before Clara could per¬ 
suade herself that she had only dreamed. It 







126 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


was months before she told the dream to her 
mother. And when she told it, her mother 
said: 

“Ah, Clara, would that all little girls might 
dream, if only it made them as good as your 
dream has made you.” 


THE SNOWDROP 

Hans Christian Andersen 


A DEEP snow covered the ground for it was 
winter time. The air was cold and the sharp 
wind blew, but in one tiny house all was snug 
and warm. There under earth and snow in 
its bulb lay a little flower. 

One day when the rain fell, little drops 
trickled through the snow coverlet down into 
the earth and told the flower bulb about 
the light above. And presently a sunbeam, 
pointed and slender, pierced its way through 
the ground and tapped on the little bulb. 

‘^Come in,” said the flower. 

cannot,” said the sunbeam. am not 
strong enough to lift the latch. I shall be 
stronger when spring comes.” 

^When will it be spring?” asked the flower. 

Soon many other little sunbeams tapped on 
the door of the brown house and the flower 
asked each of them. 


127 





128 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


“When will it be spring?” 

But the ground was covered with snow and 
every night there was ice on the water. 
Spring seemed so far away that the little 
flower sighed and said impatiently: 

“How long it is! How long it is! I feel 
quite cribbed and cramped. I must stretch 
out a little. I must rise up; lift the latch and 
look out. Then I shall say merrily to the 
spring, ‘Good morning!’ ” 

Now the walls of the flower’s house had 
been softened by the rain, warmed by the 
earth and snow and tapped upon by the sun¬ 
beams. So when the flower within pushed 
and pushed against the walls they gently gave 
way. Then up from under the earth shot 
the flower with a pale green bud on its ten¬ 
der stalk and long slender leaves that curled 
around it for a screen. The glittering snow 
was very cold but easier to push through than 
the solid brown earth. 

“Welcome, welcome!” sang the evening 
sunbeam. “Welcome, sweet little blossom.” 

The flower lifted its head above the snow 


THE SNOWDROP 


129 


into the world of light; the sunbeams cheered 
it with kisses until it unfolded itself white as 
the snow and decked with green stripes. 

“Thou art a little too early,” said the 
wind and the weather. “We still hold sway. 
It is entirely, too cold for thee.” 

“Beautiful flower,” sang the sunbeams, 
“how lovely thou art in thy white purity. 
Thou art the herald of Spring,—our first 
flower. Thy fair white bell shall ring the 
glad tidings of Spring over towns and fields. 
The snow shall melt, the bitter wind shall be 
driven away. Now earth shall send forth all 
her lovely blossoms and thou shalt have beau¬ 
tiful fellowship. Welcome!” 

The words of the sunbeams gave deep de¬ 
light to the flower. It bowed its head in 
gladness and humility. The weather was cold 
enough to freeze it to pieces—such a delicate 
little flower—but it was stronger than any one 
knew. It was strong in its glad faith in the 
spring and the message of the sunbeams. 
And so with patient hope it stood in its white 
dress in the white snow, bowing its head when 




130 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

the snow flakes fell and courageously lifting 
it again when the sunbeams scattered the 
clouds. 

‘‘A snowdrop,” shouted the children who 
came running into the garden. ^‘There it 
stands so pretty, so beautiful—the first, the only 
one. It is spring’s messenger. 

“Spring’s messenger,” echoed from the keen 
morning air. 


WHAT THE DANDELION TOLD 

Clara Maetzel 


Mother Earth and the little flower fairies 
had been very busy indeed getting ready for 
their great Spring opening. For weeks and 
weeks they had been preparing all the little 
flower children so that they would be ready 
to respond to the call of the robin and to the 
caresses of the sun and the soft west wind. 

First of all, Snowdrop had been made 
ready because she was one of the very first 
to venture out into the world. And she and 
her many little sisters, very prim and neat in 
their white starched frocks, sat quite near the 
door. Sometimes Snowdrop would not wait 
for the robin and the sun to call her, but she 
would slip out quietly at the first warm 
shower. Nearby sat a whole row of happy 
Crocuses, gay and pretty in their bell-shaped 
dresses of white and purple and gold. Vio¬ 
lets, nestling in their soft green coats, were 



132 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

there, and ^‘Daffy-down-dilly dressed in a 
green petticoat and a new gown” was quite 
ready to “come to town.” Then there was 
dainty Spring Beauty and the proud and flam¬ 
ing Tulip and all the other dear, early flowers 
that make the world so beautiful after ice 
and snow are gone. 

Yes,—every one was very busy and very 
happy,—every one,—except one poor, forlorn, 
little flower that sat, or rather lay, all alone 
in one corner. He did not look spick and 
span like the others, but his green coat hung 
about him quite wilted and soiled and his 
golden head drooped. He seemed very un¬ 
happy indeed. 

“Come, come. Dandelion,—do tell us what 
has happened; you look quite crushed,” ex¬ 
claimed one of the fairies, stopping long 
enough in her task of mixing colours to notice 
the dejected little flower. 

“Yes, Dandelion, do tell us,” cried Crocus 
who was all ready to push his little flower face 
out into the open air and who was waiting 
for the first opportunity to do so. 

“Dandelion will tell us what has happened,” 





WHAT DANDELION TOLD 133 

softly whispered Violet as she came closer 
to what was left of poor Dandelion. 

“Well,—since all of you seem so inter¬ 
ested I will tell you what happened. It cer¬ 
tainly took all the conceit out of me,—I still 
feel weak and pale. You know that we Dan¬ 
delions are bold and venturesome folks and 
some of us make our appearance in warm and 
sunny places long before any of the rest of 
you have the courage to come out. Indeed 
it has long been a matter of pride with us to 
have some person find us even before Snow¬ 
drop makes her appearance.” 

Snowdrop looked hurt at this, but said 
nothing and Dandelion continued: 

“And so it happened that several of us 
slipped out and sprouted quietly and happily 
in Farmer Brown’s front yard. It was such 
a nice place,—the sun shone brightly and 
coaxed us to put our best blossoms— 
they were so large and yellow that I am sure 
they must have looked almost as fine as Chrys¬ 
anthemum.” 

Several of the flowers cast startled looks 
into the dark corner where the Chrysanthe- 




134 the emerald STORY BOOK 

mum brothers and sisters were sleeping. But 
their slumbers were so sound, since they would 
not wake until autumn, that they did not hear 
Dandelion’s boastful remark. 

“We made a beautiful spot of yellow on 
the lawn,” continued Dandelion. “Well, yes¬ 
terday Farmer and Mrs. Brown were out in 
the garden and they saw us. 

“ ^Oh, see the dandelions! How early 
they are this year. I shall have to call the 
children.’ ” 

“With that Mrs. Brown went into the house 
to call her little boy and girl who came out 
and greeted us joyfully. 

“ ‘Let me see. Jack, if you like butter,’ said 
Ruth, as she held one of my blossoms under 
her brother’s chin. It surely looked quite yel¬ 
low by reflection and of course this was a 
sure sign that he liked butter. 

“ ‘Come, Ruth, let’s see if we can get enough 
stems to make a chain for you,’ cried Jack, 
and they found enough of my hollow stems 
to make a chain to go around Ruth’s little 
white throat. 

“By this time I felt we were doing much 


i 


WHAT DANDELION TOLD 135 

to make the children happy and I lifted my 
head proudly and whispered to my compan¬ 
ions that surely we were useful as well as 
beautiful. Just then Mrs. Brown called the 
children into the house and we were left alone 
in the garden. 

^^But not for long—Alas! Farmer Brown 
who had gone away while the children were 
with us now returned with a strange, sharp 
and shining tool in his hand. He came 
straight to where we were growing so happily 
and said: 

“ ‘Now we’ll see whether this new weeding 
knife won’t kill these pesky dandelions. 
Every year they spread more and more so 
that by and by there’ll not be any grass. 
Perhaps by starting in early to weed them 
out we can get rid of the pests 1 ’ With that he 
dug the instrument deep into the ground and 
pulled up all my lovely little brothers and 
sisters. I alone remained, but even I was 
badly bruised as you can see, and I have 
come back to tell you how cruelly I have been 
treated. Wasn’t it an unkind thing? I had 
always thought that people loved us,—for we 


136 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

make the fields and meadows glow with 
the sun’s own colour.” And poor Dandelion 
drooped his golden head and was as sad as 
it is possible for a golden headed flower to 
be. 

All the other flower children had looked 
very solemn and sympathetic during Dande¬ 
lion’s story and when he had finished, they 
crowded about him. 

‘Tt’s just a shame,” murmured Crocus; ‘T 
hope no one will treat me so rudely.” 

^‘Yes indeed,” whispered Snowdrop, ^‘it 
would certainly be a painful misfortune to 
have one’s roots cut to pieces by a patent 
weeder,” and she shuddered so violently that 
her stiff little petticoats fairly shook. 

But Mother Earth and the fairies only 
smiled and said nothing, for they knew quite 
well that it would take many, many farmers 
and more weeders than they could ever hope 
to buy to get rid of Dandelion and his numer¬ 
ous brothers and sisters. 

And the little fairy who was Dandelion’s 
particular friend laid her tiny hand on his 
tousled golden head as she whispered. 


WHAT DANDELION TOLD 137 

^‘Never mind, Dandelion dear, you are the 
children’s friend and companion and good old 
Mother Earth will never let you perish. She 
sends forth more of your kind than any other; 
she has made you so sturdy and strong that 
you can thrive almost anywhere—and I truly 
think that she loves you best.” 


We may shut our eyes 
But we can’t help knowing 
That skies are blue, 

And the grass is growing. 

James Russell Lowell, 


A GREAT FAMILY 

Agnes Maclellan Daulton 


It was a lovely day in May, and the Dande¬ 
lion family that lived near the big gate were 
lifting their pretty golden heads to greet the 
sun. Here and there a grandfather or grand¬ 
mother Dandelion stood crowned with silver, 
and, let us whisper it softly, one or two were 
quite bald, for a playful little breeze had sent 
their hair a-sailing, and he chuckled at his 
joke, the naughty breeze. 

Now one grandmother stood upon a little 
knoll, and so was much taller than the rest. 
Indeed, she was the chief grandmother of the 
family, and much respected for her wisdom. 
And she was very handsome and stately, hold¬ 
ing her graceful silver head high above the 
others. 

“A story, a story,” coaxed her grandchil¬ 
dren, turning their eager faces toward her. 
Some of them were tiny buds, but they all 
begged for a story. 


138 


A GREAT FAMILY 


139 


^‘No, children, no,” she replied, in a sweet, 
grandmotherly tone. “Really, my dears, you 
have had far more stories than are good for 
you, and I must not let you grow up unedu¬ 
cated. I think we will have a short lesson in 
family history.” 

The little Dandelions sighed. 

“Now,” she went on, “how many of you 
know why we are called Dandelions?” 

And—will you believe it?—not one stupid 
little Dandelion could answer! 

“That is just what I expected,” said grand¬ 
mother, sternly, eyeing them over her glasses. 
“My, my! this is very sad!” 

Then one little Dandelion, prompted by his 
mother, said he supposed it had something 
to do with dandies, while another bright little 
thing lisped out that she guessed it was be¬ 
cause they were as fierce as lions. 

“No, no!” and grandmother shook her head 
so briskly a silver hair went flying. 

“Look at your leaves,” she said kindly, “and 
observe the edges. Learn to notice, florets; 
learn to notice.” 

“The edges are pointed like sharp teeth. 



140 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

please, grandmother,” half whispered one 
bashful little fellow. 

^‘Exactly,” said grandmother, proceeding 
learnedly; “our name is from the Latin, dens 
leonis, meaning lion’s tooth, but our botanical 
name is Taraxacum.” 

“Oh, my!” sighed the little buds, for they 
didn’t understand a word of it. 

“Our roots have healing properties, and they 
are employed in making medicine, while our 
leaves are used in the spring for food; so we 
are useful as well as ornamental.” And the 
grandmother beamed with pride. 

“But, children, you must also know that we 
belong to the great and noble family of Com- 
positcef^ 

“Oh, dear!” gasped the little Dandelions. 

“Now you know composite means made up 
of many parts; that is, each blossom is made 
up of many little florets. Study each other’s 
heads and you will understand my meaning. 
Now in this great family of Compositce there 
are many, many flowers besides the Dande¬ 
lions. In fact, my children, we have over 
nine thousand relatives. Sunflowers, mari- 


A GREAT FAMILY 


141 

golds, asters, goldenrod, boneset, tansy, lettuce, 
and the daisy—all these belong to our family. 
Not only are we many, but we have the famous 
and the great among us—the thistle, royal 
flower of Scotland; the cornflower of Ger¬ 
many; the chrysanthemum, the emblem of 
brave little Japan—all these are composite 
flowers, our royal relatives.” 

The Dandelion family wildly applauded, 
and grandmother graciously bowed her ac¬ 
knowledgment. 

“But, my children,” she went on, “I would 
not have you forget we have also black sheep 
in the family—Spanish needles, ragweed, 
bitterweed, and beggar ticks; these, too, we 
must own, even though we bow our heads in 
shame. But so it is in all great families.” 

Just at this moment the gardener came 
whirring along with the lawn mower, and alas 
and alack, not a single Dandelion was left to 
tell the tale! 

But the little winged seeds from grand¬ 
mother’s silver crown sailed away, carrying 
wisdom, I doubt not, to many another Dande¬ 
lion family. 



THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET 

A Legend 


The raindrops were kept busy one morning in 
the garden of the fairies. There were many 
flowers to be washed clean of the dust that 
had dulled their beautiful colours, and the 
green of the trees must be made bright once 
more; and to leave without a gambol with the 
little waves of the brook was not to be thought 
of. So the raindrops fell early in the morn¬ 
ing, but in the afternoon the sky became clear 
and there was promise in the beautiful rain¬ 
bow that the raindrops’ work was done, for 
that day at least. 

“Isn’t our garden beautiful after a shower?” 
said one fairy to another sitting beside her. 

“Yes, the dust covers the colours of the 
flowers almost as soon as we have painted 
them. But see the gold of those daffodils! 
I like the reds and blues of the other flowers, 
too. They seem brighter than ever to-day. 
Sometimes I sit all day and look at them,” 

142 



THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET 143 

‘^Oh! we have a rainbow this afternoon. It 
always looks to me like a great garden of flow¬ 
ers stretched in bands across the sky. I like 
to think that its yellow and red and blue are 
made up of flowers like these in our garden 
here.” 

‘‘Do you see that colour next to the green? 
I love it; it is so dark and deep. Many times 
I have wished we might have a flower on 
earth just like it.” 

“Surely you, Fairy Artist, would have no 
trouble to make a colour like that; at least, it 
would do no harm for you to try.” 

The fairy artist sat with her eyes turned to¬ 
ward the rainbow until it had faded from 
sight, and long after the sun had sunk to rest, 
she sat alone under the trees, thinking. 

One morning she called all the fairies to 
her. “Dear fairies,” she said, “I am going to 
try to make a colour like that dark one in the 
rainbow. It may take me a long, long while, 
but one cannot give the children a greater joy 
than to add a new colour to the flowers on 
earth.” 

No one knew better than she that a great 



144 the emerald STORY BOOK 

task lay before her. Many days and weeks 
she tried. Sometimes the mixture was lighter 
than the colour in the rainbow, and sometimes 
it seemed too dark—never quite what she 
wished it to be. 

Once, as she stood before the large bowl, 
mixing and stirring patiently—she stopped, 
and the fairies in the garden heard a shout of 
joy: “I have it! the beautiful colour! the 
beautiful colour!” 

They hurried to the place where she always 
stood with her bowl and brush. 

^^See, it is the colour, indeed,” they said; 
but, as they looked into the bowl, the beauti¬ 
ful colour began to fade, and soon it was not 
at all like the colour she had longed for. 

^‘Ah, I see,” said the artist fairy, sadly, “it 
is of no use to mix together these paints that 
I have been using. We must gather my ma¬ 
terial from all the colours of earth. My dear 
fairies, you must all help.” Many were sent 
far and wide to bring from the earth clays of 
every colour they could find. The artist fairy 
worked on faithfully and patiently. 

One day when she had worked harder and 


THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET 145 

longer than usual, she heard one say, “Surely, 
Artist Fairy, you do not mean to work all the 
evening? See, the sun is ready to sink.” 

“Just a little longer; I feel sure that the 
colour will come before sunset. Look, does 
it not begin even now to change?” 

The fairies looked into the bowl and all ex¬ 
claimed at once, “The colour at last! It is in¬ 
deed the deep colour of the rainbow!” 

“Let us carry the bowl to the top of the 
bank and at moonlight we will rejoice over 
the new joy that has come to us.” 

It was a small bank that overlooked a little 
brook. Flowers had never grown there and 
sometimes the fairies felt sad when they looked 
upon that bare spot in their garden. Perhaps 
the great tree that spread out its branches took 
more than its share of the sunshine, but the 
fairies loved this bank. Moonbeams always 
seemed to lie so still there. “It’s just the 
place for our moonlight revel!” said one. 

All the creatures of the fairies’ garden came 
to the rejoicing. The night was glorious. 
The moon sent down her silvery beams earlier 
than usual, although the fireflies insisted that 




146 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

there was no need of her shining so brightly, 
and that she might throw all her beams to the 
waves in the brook, for they looked so beauti¬ 
ful with a silver covering. Not a grasshopper 
went to bed, and the frog made the music for 
the dance, at which the cricket felt sad, for 
she knew her voice could not be heard above 
his. The flowers sang their sweetest songs 
about the new colour that was to come among 
them. It was not late when the fairies joined 
hands and danced around the bowl. Perhaps 
this moonlight revel would have lasted many 
hours longer, but as the fairies were finishing 
the dance, one of them touched the precious 
bowl and alas! the next moment they saw the 
beautiful colour flow in tiny dark streams 
down the hillside. For a little while it glis¬ 
tened beneath the rays of the moon, and then 
it sank into the dark earth. The fairies stood 
and watched it, helpless. 

‘‘It is all lost. It is all gone in a moment,” 
said the Artist Fairy, as she turned for com¬ 
fort to the rest. 

“No, no, my dear Fairy. What you have 
once done you can do again.” 



THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET 147 

do not remember how it was made. No, 
I cannot get it again. It is gone forever.” 

‘‘Do not say that, I beg of you. Have you 
not heard it said that ‘nothing is lost’?” 

Once more the raindrops visited the garden, 
and the fairies worked all day long and all 
night long before everything was done. 

“It is so refreshing when the garden has 
been washed clean again of its dust.” 

“See,” cried one. “See our bank this morn¬ 
ing.” 

“It is covered with a carpet of purple! 
Come, let us look closer,” called another. 

“It is the colour! It is the colour!” said 
the Artist Fairy, as she hastened toward the 
bank. “Nothing is lost,” she added, softly as 
she looked closer. For purple violets had 
been born that morning while the raindrops 
fell. 


God does not send us strange flowers every year. 
When the spring winds blow o’er the pleasant places, 
The same dear things lift up the same fair faces. 

The violet is here! 


148 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

It all comes back; the odour, grace and hue; 

Each sweet relation of its life repeated. 

No blank is left, no looking-for is cheated; 

It is the thing we knew. 


A LYRIC OF JOY 

Bliss Carman 

Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune, 

I saw the white daisies go down to the sea; 

A host in the sunshine, a snowdrift in June, 
The people God sends us to set our hearts free. 

The bob-o-links rallied them up from the dell. 
The orioles whistled them out of the wood; 
And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is 
well,” 

And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art 
good.” 


AMONG THE TREE-TOPS 







ROBIN’S CAROL* 


This is the carol the Robin throws 
Over the edge of the valley ; 

Listen how boldly it flows, 

Sally on sally: 

Tirra-lirra, 

Early morn, 

New born! 

Day is near. 

Clear, clear. 

Down the river 
All a-quiver, 

Fish are breaking; 

Time for waking. 

Tup, tup, tup! 

Do you know ? 

All clear— 

Wake up 1 

Henry van Dyke, 

* By special permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons. 






HOW THE BIRDS CAME 

An Indian Legend 


^‘Many years ago,” says the old Indian Grand¬ 
mother, “the Great Spirit visited the earth. 
As he walked over valley and hill he said, 
Tt is all beautiful and good. But the Great 
Spirit loves the trees best. See how they make 
the hills and valleys radiant with their green. 
Earth would be fairer still,’ said the Great 
Spirit, hf there were trees everywhere. I 
would have great forests cover the mountain 
sides. I would see trees as far as my eye can 
reach across the land. I would have a tree 
spring up wherever my foot touches the 
earth!’ And it was as the Great Spirit 
wished. As he wandered up and down the 
mountains and valleys and across the plains, 
little trees sprang up in his footsteps, until 
the whole earth, like the hills and valleys, was 
radiant in green. ‘The Great Spirit loves the 
little trees best,’ he said, when he looked upon 


152 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

them. ‘Little trees, I will watch over you and 
guard you. I will send gentle rains that you 
may have water to drink. I will send my 
warm sun to shine upon you. And you must 
grow and grow and grow.’ All summer long 
the Great Spirit cared for them, and when the 
first summer had passed and the winter came, 
the little trees had grown until they spread 
their branches far and wide. 

“But one autumn day a great change came 
over the radiant green. All the leaves on the 
trees turned to beautiful colours—red, yellow, 
brown, gold. ‘They are beautiful, beautiful,’ 
said the Great Spirit. ‘My trees have never 
been so beautiful before.’ 

“As he spoke a gentle wind stirred the 
branches and the Great Spirit saw the leaves 
drop from the trees, flutter through the air and 
fall to the ground. 

“ ‘See,’ he exclaimed, ‘the leaves of my trees 
fall to the earth where they will wither and 
die. This shall not be. Behold, my leaves, 
I am the Great Spirit. I will give you breath 
and strength. You shall not die—you shall 
live forever.’ 


HOW THE BIRDS CAME 153 

^‘He breathed softly upon the coloured 
leaves. In a moment hundreds of leaves 
moved, then fluttered, then flew away—a flock 
of beautiful birds. The red-brown oak leaves 
became robins; all the yellow and gold leaves 
became yellow birds. The red-maple leaves 
flew away beautiful red birds, while the with¬ 
ered brown leaves scattered around, sprang up 
sparrows and larks.” 

The Indian Grandmother says that is how 
we got our first birds, and that is why the birds 
love the trees and always live among them. 


HOW THE BIRDS LEARNED TO 
BUILD NESTS ^ 

James Baldwin 

There is an old story which says that the mag¬ 
pie was the first bird to build a nest. 

One day all the birds came to her and said, 
“Mrs. Magpie, won’t you teach us how to 
make pretty nests like your own?” 

“Oh, yes,” said the magpie, kindly. “I will 
show you just how it is done.” Then she told 
them to sit around her, and she would build 
a nest while they were looking on. She said, 
“You have only to notice what I do.” 

She brought some mud from the side of the 
brook and made it into a kind of round cake. 
The birds sat very still, and watched her un¬ 
til the cake was finished. Then the thrush 
cried out, “Oh, I see how the nest is built! 
You first make a cake of mud and then pat it 

* From “School Reading by Grades, Third Year,” by James 
Baldwin. Copyright American Book Co. 

154 



HOW THE BIRDS LEARNED 155 

down in the middle.” And she flew away to 
try for herself; and no thrush has learned 
anything about nest-building since. 

The magpie next took some twigs, and laid 
them round the cake of mud. “Say no more!” 
cried the blackbird. “I understand it all.” 
Away he flew to the green thickets by the 
river; and that is how blackbirds build their 
nests to this very day. 

Then the magpie put a thin layer of mud 
on the twigs, and smoothed it a little with her 
beak. “Oh, that is all that I need to know,” 
said the wise owl. “Who—who—who would 
have thought it so simple a thing?” He flew 
to the top of a great oak tree, where he sat for 
a long time, looking at the moon and saying, 
“Who—who—who!” 

Then the magpie took some long, slender 
twigs, and twined them round the outside. 
“That is just the thing!” cried the song spar¬ 
row, and off he went. And song sparrows still 
make their nests by twining twigs. 

After this, the magpie took some feathers 
and fine moss, and lined the nest until it was 
a very comfortable place indeed. 



156 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

^That suits me!” said the starling, and off he 
flew. And everybody knows that starlings 
have built well-lined nests ever since. 

The magpie kept on working and working. 
But every bird, when he had learned a little 
about nest-building, flew away without wait¬ 
ing to the end of the lesson. At last no one 
was left but the turtledove. It had paid no 
attention to what the magpie was doing, and 
so had not learned anything at all. 

It sat on a branch above the magpie’s nest, 
and kept saying over and over again, “Take 
two, two, two, two!” But it was looking far 
away toward the blue mountains in the west, 
and its thoughts were all with its dear mate 
whom a cruel hawk had lately snatched away. 

“Take two, two, two, two,” mourned the 
dove. The magpie heard this just as she was 
twining a slender twig around the top of her 
nest. So, without looking up, she said, “One 
will be enough.” 

But the dove kept on saying, “Take two, 
two, two, two.” This made the magpie 
angry, and she said, “Don’t I tell you that one 
will be enough?” 


HOW THE BIRDS LEARNED 157 

‘‘Take two, two, two, two!” still cried the 
turtledove. At last the magpie looked up and 
saw that no bird was near her but the silly 
dove. 

“Til never give another lesson in nest build¬ 
ing!” she cried. And she flew away and left 
the dove alone in the tree. 

It was no use, after that, for any bird to ask 
the magpie how to make a nest; and, from that 
day to this, no bird has learned anything new 
about its trade. 

All the blackbirds, the thrushes, the owls, 
and the doves, still build just as they did a 
thousand years ago. None of them seem to 
want better nests; and I doubt if any could 
learn how to make them now, even though the 
magpie should try to teach them again. 



OUT OF THE NEST* 

Maud Lindsay 

Once upon a time a mother bird and father 
bird built a nest in a tree. It was made of 
straw and leaves and all sorts of wonderful 
things, and even had lace trimmings on it. 

Soon after, the nest was finished, the mother 
bird put two eggs in it, and then she and the 
father bird thought of nothing but keeping 
those eggs safe and warm. Mother bird sat 
on them day and night; and even when father 
bird would say, ‘‘You really must fly about a 
little and let me take care of the eggs,” she did 
not like to leave them. 

After a while two little birds came out of 
the shells, which was just what she had been 
hoping for all the time. The baby birds were 
both so weak and small that they could do 
nothing at all for themselves but open their 
mouths very wide and call, “Peep, peep! 

* Courtesy of Milton Bradly Co. From “More Mother 
Stories.” 


158 


OUT OF THE NEST 


159 

mother, dear, peep!” Mother bird and father 
bird were busy all day getting them something 
to eat. By and by they began to grow, and 
then they had soft feather clothes to wear, 
which are the best clothes in the world for 
baby birds. 

Mother bird said to them one day, ^‘You 
are almost ready to learn to fly”; and then they 
felt very large. That same day mother bird 
and father bird flew away together to get 
something for dinner; and while they were 
gone the little birds heard a very queer noise 
which seemed to come from a pond near the 
tree. This is the way it sounded: ‘‘Ker¬ 
chunk ! Kerchunk!” 

“Oh! what can it be?” said the sister bird. 
“I’ll peep over the side of the nest and see,” 
said her brother. But when he put his head 
out he could see nothing although he heard 
the sound very plainly: “Kerchunk! Ker¬ 
chunk!” Then he leaned out a little farther 
and a little farther, till his head was dizzy. 
“Peep, peep! You’ll fall!” cried the sister 
bird; and, sure enough, she had scarcely said 
it before he tumbled out of the nest, down. 




i6o THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


down to the ground! He was not hurt, but, 
oh, how frightened he was! ‘Teep, peep! 
mother, dear, peep!” he cried. “Peep!” cried 
the sister bird up in the nest, but the mother 
and father were too far away to hear their 
calls. 

The brother bird hopped about on the 
ground and looked around him. He was near 
the pond now, and the sound was very loud: 
“Kerchunk! Kerchunk!” “Peep, peep, 
peep!” called the birdie, and in a moment up 
hopped a big frog. This was an old school¬ 
teacher frog, and he had been teaching all the 
little frogs to sing. “Kerchunk! Ker¬ 
chunk!” said he. “How can I teach my frogs 
to sing when you are making such a noise?” 

“Peep, peep! I want my mamma,” said the 
baby bird-. Then the frog saw how young the 
birdie was, and he was very sorry for him. 
“Come with me,” he said, “and I will teach 
you to sing.” But the baby bird cried louder 
than ever at this, and a mother dove, who was 
singing her babies to sleep in a neighbouring 
tree, flew down to see what could be the mat¬ 
ter. 


OUT OF THE NEST i6i 

“I can’t begin to get my children to sleep in 
all this fuss,” she said to the frog, but when 
she saw the little bird she was just as sorry as 
the frog had been. ‘‘Poor, dear baby,” she 
cried. “I will fly right off and find your 
mamma for you.” So she told her children 
to be good and quiet, and then away she flew. 
Before long she met the father and mother, 
and they all came back in a great hurry. 
Then they tried to get the baby bird into the 
nest again. 

“He is entirely too young to be out of the 
nest,” cried his mother, “and he must get in 
again at once.” “Spread your wings and fly, 
as I do,” said the father bird. So the baby 
bird spread his wings and tried to fly; but, try 
as he would, he could not reach the nest in the 
tree. 

“Put him into my school, and I will teach 
him to swim,” said the frog; “that is better 
than flying, and a great deal easier to learn, I 
am sure.” This was so kind of the frog that 
the mother bird thanked him; but she said she 
had to be very careful with her children, and 
that she was afraid the water might give the 


i62 the emerald story book 


little bird a cold. While they were talking, 
they heard somebody coming along, whistling 
the jolliest tune! 

“Dear me! Dear me!” cried the birds. 
“There comes a boy!” “He’s apt to have 
stones in his pocket,” said the frog. “He will 
carry my darling off and put him in a cage! 
Oh, fly! fly!” begged the mother bird. But 
before the baby bird even had time to say, 
“Peep!” the boy came in sight. 

Then the father bird flew over the boy’s 
head and the mother bird down in front of 
him. The frog croaked and the dove cooed, 
but none of them could hide the little bird 
from him. “If you hurt him. I’ll peck your 
eyes out!” cried the poor mother, who hardly 
knew what she was saying; but the boy picked 
the little bird up, just as if he did not hear 
her. “Oh, what shall I do?” cried the mother 
bird. 

Then the boy looked at her and at the tree 
where the nest was. “Coo, coo, coo! I think I 
know what he is going to do,” said the dove. 
“There’s no telling,” croaked the frog; and 
they all watched and wondered, while the boy 


OUT OF THE NEST 163 

put the bird in his pocket and began to climb 
the tree. He swung himself from branch to 
branch, climbing higher all the time, until at 
last he reached the pretty nest where the sister 
bird waited for her mother to come home. 

Mother bird and father bird flew to the 
top of the tree to watch the boy. ‘‘Suppose 
he should take her, too,” said the mother bird. 
But what do you think he did? Yes, indeed. 
He put the brother bird back in the nest, as 
well as the mother bird could have done it 
herself. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” sang the mother 
and father as the boy scrambled down again. 
“Peep, peep! Thank you!” called the little 
birds from the nest. “Coo, coo! I knew,” 
cried the dove. “Kerchunk! Kerchunk! I 
should like to have him in my school,” said the 
frog, as he hopped away to his pond. 


THE STORY OF BLUE-WINGS 

Mary Stewart 


There was once an old apple-orchard. It 
was full of beautiful things. In the spring 
the trees were covered with pink and white 
blossoms, while the soft green grass was 
sprinkled with dandelions. In the autumn the 
fruit was scarlet, and beneath the trees the 
grass, which had grown high and feathery, 
waved in the wind. 

But there was something else in the orchard 
which was more wonderful than the grass or 
the dandelions, the blossoms or the fruit. 
Sometimes early in the spring there was a sud¬ 
den flash of blue wings above the trees, then a 
bird’s song, so clear and sweet and joyous that 
it made us think of blue skies and of dancing 
blue waves. It came from the owner of those 
splendid blue wings, and we knew that the 
king of the orchard had returned from his 
winter’s trip, the bluebird had come home. 

164 


THE STORY OF BLUE-WINGS 165 

High up in an old tree there was a little 
hole and there the bluebird made his nest. 
From the outside the hole looked dark and 
hard, but inside it was as soft and cosy as the 
prettiest nest in the world. It was lined with 
bits of feathers and down and it was quite big, 
plenty big enough for the bluebird and his 
wife. Her feathers were not as bright as his 
nor her song as beautiful, but she could do 
something even more marvellous than wearing 
bright feathers or singing joyous songs. She 
could lay eggs. 

And so she laid five small, bluish eggs in 
that cosy home. Then she sat on them, keep¬ 
ing them warm with her soft little body, while 
the father bird flashed his splendid wings back 
and forth through the orchard, bringing food 
to the little mother bird and singing his happy 
song, happier than ever now that he could tell 
of those precious eggs. 

At last the shells went ^^crack,” and five 
little baby birds opened their big bills very 
wide and chirped for food. Then how busy 
their father and mother were kept! 

I have not time to tell you all that happened 



i66 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


during the summer, when the young ones 
learned to fly, learned too a few notes of that 
song which makes us think of the sky and the 
sea. None of them were as beautiful as their 
father, none of their songs were as perfect, 
but their mother told them to have patience, 
to try hard to fly straight, and to sing clearly, 
and then, perhaps, after their winter in the 
warm South, they would come back to the 
orchard with wings that would flash, and with 
a song that would be like the first joyous call 
of the spring time. 

And so, when the first cold weather came, 
four of the young birds flew away with their 
mother and father. But one was left behind! 
Poor little bird, I do not know whether he had 
fallen from a tree or been hit by a stone. I 
only know that one wing was broken, and he 
lay on the hard ground, his blue feathers dull, 
his eyes dim. 

There a little girl found him, and she lifted 
him tenderly and carried him through the 
orchard to the white farm house beyond. She 
laid the poor little creature in a big wooden 



THE STORY OF BLUE-WINGS 167 

cage, and fed him with bread crumbs soaked 
in water until his eyes grew brighter and he 
tried to lift his wings. But when he found 
that he could not, because one was broken, 
you know, he gave a chirp of pain and huddled 
down forlornly on the floor of the cage. But 
soon, with all this care, he grew strong again, 
even if he could not fly, and he and the little 
girl had nice times together. The door of the 
cage was always open and Blue-wings, that is 
the name the child gave him, although his 
feathers were not so very blue, would hop 
down to the table and around the room, al¬ 
ways ending by lighting on the little girl’s 
shoulder. He would eat from her hand, and 
sometimes he gave little chirps which meant 
‘^thank you.” 

He had never sung since the day when he 
had tried to raise his wings and had dropped 
them in pain. Sometimes he dreamed of the 
orchard, of flying swiftly through the trees and 
of singing joyous songs to greet the sunshine. 
Then he would open his eyes and see the cosy 
kitchen and his dear little girl friend, and he 




i68 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


would hop down sadly and sit on her shoulder, 
trying to forget his longings, trying to chirp 
cheerfully when she gave him crumbs. 

As the winter passed and the days grew 
warm and bright. Blue-wings found himself 
dreaming of his old free life most of the time, 
and between the dreams the longing to fly and 
sing was stronger than ever. One day the 
window next his cage was left wide open and 
through it the soft south wind brought the 
fragrance of the apple blossoms, and the whir 
and hum of the little creatures who were busy 
greeting the spring time. Suddenly Blue- 
wings felt as if he must fly and sing or his heart 
would break. And then—was it a dream, he 
wondered—he lifted his wings and flew right 
out of the window. Through the orchard he 
darted, above the blossoming trees, his blue 
wings flashing in the sunshine. Even his 
father’s wings were not as splendidly blue as 
his, and they were so strong! 

It was no dream now, he knew; it was all 
true. And as he mounted higher and higher 
he sang a song so clear and sweet and joyful 
that the farmer ploughing in the field stopped, 


THE STORY OF BLUE-WINGS 169 

and listened with tears in his eyes. Blue¬ 
wing’s song made him think of the tossing sea 
he had lived beside when he was a boy. And 
the little girl heard it, as she stood at the farm¬ 
house door, and she stood smiling up into the 
blue sky with thoughts of angels in her heart. 

‘‘Did Blue-wings ever come back to the little 
girl,” you ask? He never came back to the 
cage or the farm-house kitchen, but he lived 
in the orchard and had a nest there. And 
whenever the child saw a wonderfully blue 
glimmer through the branches, or heard a most 
beautiful bird’s song, she knew that Blue- 
wings was near. And she remembered that 
it was through her love and her care that he 
had lived and grown strong, able to take his 
place as king of the orchard, able by his song 
to bring into people’s hearts happiness too 
great for words. 




AN EASTERN LEGEND 

Grace Duffield Goodwin 

There’s a tender eastern legend, 

In a volume old and rare 

Of the Christ Child in his garden, 

Walking with the children there. 

And it tells—this strange, sweet story— 

(True or false, ah, who shall say?) 

How a bird with broken pinion 
Dead within the garden lay. 

And the children, children cruel. 

Lifted it by shattered wing, 

Shouting, ‘‘Make us merry music. 

Sing, you lazy fellow, sing.” 

But the Christ Child bent above it. 

Took it in his gentle hand. 

Full of pity for the suffering 
He alone could understand. 

Whispered to it—oh, so softly! 

Laid his lips upon its throat, 

And the song life, swift returning. 

Sounded out in one glad note. 

Then away, on wings unwearied. 

Joyously it sang and soared. 

And the little children kneeling 

Called the Christ Child, “Master-Lord!” 

170 



THE HOUSE WREN 

Neltje Blanchan 

When you are sound asleep some April morn¬ 
ing, a tiny brown bird, just returned from a 
long visit south, will probably alight on the 
perch in front of one of your boxes, peep in 
the doorhole, enter—although his pert little 
cocked-up tail has to be lowered to let him 
through—look about with approval, go out, 
spring to the roof and pour out of his wee 
throat a gushing torrent of music. The song 
seems to bubble up faster than he can sing. 
After the wren’s happy discovery of a place 
to live, his song will go off in a series of 
musical explosions all day long, now from the 
roof, now from the clothes posts, the fence, the 
barn, or the woodpile. There never was a 
more tireless, spirited, brilliant singer. From 
the intensity of his feelings, he sometimes 
droops that expressive little tail of his, which 
is usually so erect and saucy. 




172 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

With characteristic energy, he frequently 
begins to carry twigs into the house before he 
finds a mate. The day little Jenny Wren ap¬ 
pears on the scene, how he does sing! Dash¬ 
ing off for more twigs, but stopping to sing 
to her every other minute, he helps furnish 
the cottage quickly, but, of course, he over¬ 
does—he carries in more twigs and hay and 
feathers than the little house can hold, then 
pulls half of them out again. Jenny gathers, 
too, for she is a bustling housewife and ar¬ 
ranges matters with neatness and despatch. 
Neither vermin nor dust will she tolerate 
within her well-kept home. Everything she 
does to suit herself pleases her ardent little 
lover. He applauds her with song; he flies 
about after her with a nervous desire to pro¬ 
tect; he seems beside himself with happiness. 
Let any one pass too near his best beloved, and 
he begins to chatter excitedly: Chit-chit- 
chit-chit/' as much as to say, “Oh, do go away; 
go quickly! Can’t you see how nervous and 
fidgety you make me?” 

If you fancy that Jenny Wren, who is pa¬ 
tiently sitting on the little pinkish, chocolate 



THE HOUSE WREN 173 

spotted eggs in the centre of her feather bed, 
is a demure, angelic creature, you have never 
seen her attack the sparrow, nearly twice her 
size, that dares put his impudent head inside 
her door. Oh! how she flies at him! How 
she chatters and scolds! What a plucky little 
shrew she is, after all! Her piercing, chat¬ 
tering, scolding notes are fairly hissed into his 
ears until he is thankful enough to escape. 

There’s a little brown wren that has built in our tree,^ 
And she’s scarcely as big as a big humble-bee; 

She has hollowed a house in the heart of a limb, 

And made the walls tidy and made the doors trim 
With the down of the crow’s foot, and tow, and with 
straw 

The cosiest dwelling that you ever saw. 

The little brown wren has the brightest of eyes 
And a foot of very diminutive size. 

Her tail is as big as the sail of a ship. 

She’s demure, though she walks with a hop and a skip; 
And her voice—but a flute were more fit than a pen 
To tell of the voice of the little brown wren. 

One morning Sir Sparrow came sauntering by 
And cast on the wren’s house an envious eye; 

* “The Little Brown Wren,” by Clinton Scollard. 



174 the emerald STORY BOOK 

With a strut of bravado and toss of his head, 

“Fll put in my claim here,” the bold fellow said; 

So straightway he mounted on impudent wing. 

And entered the door without pausing to ring. 

An instant—, and swiftly that feathery knight 
All towsled and tumbled, in terror took flight. 

While there by the door, in her favourite perch. 

As neat as a lady just starting for church. 

With this song on her lips, “He will not call again 
Unless he is asked,” sat the little brown wren. 

If the bluebirds had her courage and hot, 
quick temper, they would never let the spar¬ 
rows drive them away from their boxes. Un¬ 
fortunately a hole large enough to admit a 
bluebird will easily admit those grasping mo¬ 
nopolists; but Jenny Wren is safe, if she did 
but know it, in her house with its tiny front 
door. It is amusing to see a sparrow try to 
work his shoulders through the small hole of 
an empty wren house, pushing and kicking 
madly, but all in vain. 

What rent do the wrens pay for their little 
houses? No man is clever enough to estimate 
the vast numbers of insects on your place that 
they destroy. They eat nothing else, which 
is the chief reason why they are so lively and 




THE HOUSE WREN 


175 


excitable. Unable to soar after flying insects 
because of their short, round wings, they keep, 
as a rule, rather close to the ground which 
their finely barred brown feathers so closely 
match. Whether hunting for grubs in the 
wood-pile, scrambling over the brush heap 
after spiders, searching among the trees to 
provide a dinner for their large families, or 
creeping, like little feathered mice, in queer 
nooks and crannies among the outbuildings 
on the farm, they are always busy in your in¬ 
terest which is also theirs. It certainly pays, 
in every sense, to encourage the wrens. 






THE CHILDREN OF WIND AND 
THE CLAN OF PEACE 

A CHRIST LEGEND 
Fiona MacLeod 

It was the last month of the last year of the 
seven years’ silence and peace. When would 
that be, you ask? 

Surely what other would it be than the seven 
holy years when Jesus the Christ was a little 
lad. 

It was a still day. The little white flowers 
that were called Breaths of Hope and that we 
now call Stars of Bethlehem were so hushed in 
quiet that the shadows of the moths lay on 
them like the dark motionless violet in the 
hearts of pansies. In the long swords of 
tender grass the multitude of the daisies were 
white as milk faintly stained with flusht dews 
fallen from roses. On the meadows of white 
poppies were long shadows blue as the blue 
lagoons of the sky among drifting snow white 
moors of cloud. Three white aspens on the 

176 


THE CHILDREN OF WIND 177 

pastures were in a still sleep; their tremulous 
leaves made no rustle; ewes and lambs were 
sleeping and yearling kids opened and closed 
their eyes among the garths of white clover. 

It was Sabbath and Jesus walked alone. 
When He came to a little rise in the grass He 
turned and looked back at the house where His 
parents dwelled. Suddenly He heard a noise 
as of many birds and turned and looked be¬ 
yond the low upland where He stood. A pool 
of pure water lay in the hollow, fed by a cease¬ 
less wellspring and round it and over it circled 
birds whose breasts were grey as pearl and 
whose necks shone purple and grass green and 
rose. The noise was of their wings, for 
though the birds were beautiful they were 
voiceless and dumb as flowers. 

At the edge of the pool stood two figures 
like angels, but the child did not know them. 
One He saw was beautiful as Night, and one 
beautiful as Morning. 

He drew near. 

have lived seven years,” He said, “and I 
wish to send peace to the far ends of the world.” 

“Tell your secret to the birds,” said one. 






178 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

‘‘Tell your secret to the birds,” said the 
other. 

So Jesus called the birds. 

“Come,” He cried, and they came. 

Seven came flying from the left, from the 
side of the angel beautiful as Night. Seven 
came flying from the right, from the side of 
the angel beautiful as Morning. 

To the first He said: “Look into my 
heart.” 

But they wheeled about Him, and with new 
found voices mocked, crying, “How could we 
see into your heart that is hidden ...” and 
mocked and derided, crying, “What is Peace! 
. . . leave us alone. Leave us alone.” 

So Christ said to them: “I know you for 
the birds of Evil. Henceforth ye shall be 
black as night, and be children of the winds.” 

To the seven other birds which circled about 
Him, voiceless, and brushing their wings 
against His arms, He cried: 

“Look into my heart.” 

And they swerved and hung before Him in 
a maze of wings, and looked into His pure 
heart: and, as they looked, a soft murmurous 




THE CHILDREN OF WIND 179 

sound came from them—drowsy, sweet, full of 
peace—and as they hung there like a breath 
in frost they became white as snow. 

‘We are the Doves of the Spirit,” said 
Christ, “and to you I will commit that which 
ye have seen. Henceforth shall your plumage 
be white and your voices be the voices of 
peace.” 

The young Christ turned, for He heard 
Mary calling to the sheep and goats, and knew 
that dayset was come and that in the valleys the 
gloaming was already rising like smoke from 
the urns of the twilight. When he looked 
back he saw that seven white doves were in 
the cedar beyond the pool, cooing in low 
ecstasy of peace and awaiting through sleep 
and dreams the rose-red pathways of the dawn. 
Down the long grey reaches of the ebbing day 
He saw seven birds rising and falling on the 
wind black as black water in caves, black as 
the darkness of night in old pathless woods. 

And that is how the first doves became 
white, and how the first crows became black 
and were called by a name that means the clan 
of darkness, the children of wind. 























IN MEADOW AND POND 






A SPRING LILT 


Through the silver mist 
Of the blossom-spray 
Trill the orioles: list 
To their joyous lay! 

“What in all the world 
In all the world,” they say, 
“Is half so sweet, so sweet. 

Is half so sweet as May?” 

“June! June! June!” 

Low croon 

The brown bees in the clover. 
“Sweet! sweet! sweet!” 
Repeat 

The robins, nestled over. 


Unknown. 


HOW BUTTERFLIES CAME 

Hans Christian Andersen 

One day the flowers begged the fairies to 
let them leave their stalks and fly away into 
the air. 

‘We have to sit here in the same place from 
morning till night, fairies! Do let us go!” 

• “Go then, dear flowers,” said the fairies. 
“But you must promise that you will return to 
your stalks before the sun goes down.” 

“We promise,” called out the flowers as 
they flew away, red, yellow, and white, over 
the grass, out of the garden to the great wide 
meadow beyond. The fairies’ garden seemed, 
suddenly, to have taken wings. 

As the sun began to set the flowers flew 
quietly back to their stalks, and when the fair¬ 
ies came, they found each flower again in its 
place. 

“Well done, well done!” exclaimed the fair- 
183 


184 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

ies. “To-morrow you may fly away again to 
the meadows.” 

As the sun rose the next morning there was 
a flutter of red and yellow and white as, from 
every stalk, a pair of coloured wings rose 
and flapped, then took flight once more over 
the meadows and fields. And by and by a 
day came when the petals of the flowers be¬ 
came wings —real wings, for the flowers 
themselves had become beautiful butterflies— 
red, yellow and white. 

WHITE BUTTERFLIES 

Algernon Charles Swinburne 

Fly, white butterflies, out to sea. 

Frail, pale wings for the wind to try. 

Small white wings that we scarce can see, 
Fly. 

Some fly light as a laugh of glee. 

Some fly soft as a long, low sigh; 

All to the haven where each should be. 

Fly. 


THE BUTTERFLY 

Mrs. Alfred Gatty 


‘^Let me hire you as a nurse for my poor 
children,” said a Butterfly to a quiet Cater¬ 
pillar, who was strolling along a cabbage- 
leaf in her odd lumbering way. ^‘See these 
little eggs,” continued the Butterfly; “I don’t 
know how long it will be before they come 
to life, and I feel very sick and poorly, and if 
I should die, who will take care of my baby 
butterflies when I am gone? Will you, kind, 
mild, green Caterpillar? But you must mind 
what you give them to eat. Caterpillar! 
—they cannot, of course, live on your rough 
food. You must give them early dew, and 
honey from the flowers; and you must let 
them fly about only a little way at first; for, 
of course, one can’t expect them to use their 
wings properly all at once. Dear me, it is 
a sad pity you cannot fly yourself! But I 
185 


i86 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


have no time to look for another nurse now, 
so you will do your best, I hope. Dear, dear! 
I cannot think what made me come and lay 
my eggs on a cabbage-leaf I What a place for 
young butterflies to be born upon! Still you 
will be kind, will you not, to the poor little 
ones? Here, take this gold-dust from my 
wings as a reward. Oh, how dizzy I am! 
Caterpillar, you will remember about the 
food—’’ 

And with these words the Butterfly drooped 
her wings and was gone; and the green Cater¬ 
pillar, who had not had the opportunity of 
even saying Yes or No to the request, was 
left standing alone by the side of the Butter¬ 
fly’s eggs. 

^‘A pretty nurse she has chosen, indeed, poor 
lady!” exclaimed she, ‘^and a pretty business 
I have in hand! Why, her senses must have 
left her, or she never would have asked a poor 
crawling creature like me to bring up her 
dainty little ones! Much they’ll mind me, 
truly, when they feel the gay wings on their 
backs, and can fly away out of my sight when¬ 
ever they choose! Ah! how silly some people 


THE BUTTERFLY 187 

are, in spite of their painted clothes and the 
gold-dust on their wings!” 

However, the poor Butterfly was gone, and 
there lay the eggs on the cabbage-leaf; and the 
green Caterpillar had a kind heart, so she re¬ 
solved to do her best. But she got no sleep 
that night, she was so very anxious. She 
made her back quite ache with walking all 
night round her young charges, for fear any 
harm should happen to them; and in the morn¬ 
ing says she to herself— 

^^Two heads are better than one. I will 
consult some wise animal upon the matter, 
and get advice. How should a poor crawl¬ 
ing creature like me know what to do without 
asking my betters?” 

But still there was difficulty—whom should 
the Caterpillar consult? There was the 
shaggy Dog who sometimes came into the gar¬ 
den. But he was so rough!—he would most 
likely whisk all the eggs off the cabbage-leaf 
with one brush of his tail, if she called him 
near to talk to her, and then she should never 
forgive herself. There was the Tom Cat, to 
be sure, who would sometimes sit at the foot 





188 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


of the apple-tree, basking himself and warm¬ 
ing his fur in the sunshine; but he was so 
selfish and indifferent!—there was no hope of 
his giving himself the trouble to think about 
butterflies’ eggs. “I wonder which is the 
wisest of all the animals I know,” sighed the 
Caterpillar, in great distress; and then she 
thought, and thought, till at last she thought 
of the Lark; and she fancied that because he 
went up so high, and nobody knew where he 
went to, he must be very clever, and know a 
great deal; for to go up very high (which 
she could never do) was the Caterpillar’s idea 
of perfect glory. 

Now in the neighbouring corn-field there 
lived a Lark, and the Caterpillar sent a mes¬ 
sage to him, to beg him to come and talk to 
her, and when he came she told him all her 
difficulties, and asked him what she was to 
do to feed and rear the little creatures so dif¬ 
ferent from herself. 

^‘Perhaps you will be able to inquire and 
hear something about it the next time you go 
up high,” observed the Caterpillar, timidly. 



THE BUTTERFLY 189 

The Lark said, ‘Terhaps he should;” but 
he did not satisfy her curiosity any further. 
Soon afterwards, however, he went singing 
upwards into the bright blue sky. By de¬ 
grees his voice died away in the distance till 
the green Caterpillar could not hear a sound. 
It is nothing to say she could not see him, for, 
poor thing, she never could see far at any 
time, and had a difficulty in looking upwards 
at all, even when she reared herself up most 
carefully, which she did now; but it was of 
no use, so she dropped upon her legs again, 
and resumed her walk round the Butterfly’s 
eggs, nibbling a bit of the cabbage-leaf now 
and then as she moved along. 

^‘What a time the Lark has been gone!” 
she cried, at last. “I wonder where he is 
just now! I would give all my legs to know! 
He must have flown up higher than usual 
this time, I do think! How I should like 
to know where it is that he goes to, and what 
he hears in that curious blue sky! He al¬ 
ways sings going up and coming down, but he 
never lets any secret out. He is very close!” 



190 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

And the green Caterpillar took another turn 
round the Butterfly’s eggs. 

At last the Lark’s voice began to be heard 
again. The Caterpillar almost jumped for 
joy, and it Avas not long before she saw her 
friend descend with hushed note to the cab¬ 
bage bed. 

“News, news, glorious news, friend Cater¬ 
pillar!” sang the Lark; “but the worst of it 
is, you won’t believe me!” 

“I believe everything I am told,” observed 
the Caterpillar, hastily. 

“Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what 
these little creatures are to eat”—and the Lark 
nodded his beak towards the eggs. “What do 
you think it is to be? Guess!” 

“Dew, and the honey out of flowers, I am 
afraid,” sighed the Caterpillar. 

“No such thing! Something simpler than 
that. Something you can get at quite easily.” 

“I can get at nothing quite easily but the 
cabbage-leaves,” murmured the Caterpillar, 
in distress. 

“Excellent! my good friend,” cried the 



THE BUTTERFLY 


191 

Lark, exultingly; ^^you have found it out 
You are to feed them with cabbage-leaves.” 

''Never!'' cried the Caterpillar, indignantly. 
“It was their mother’s last request that I 
should do no such thing.” 

“Their mother knew nothing about the mat¬ 
ter,” persisted the Lark; “but why do you ask 
me, and then disbelieve what I say? You 
have neither faith nor trust.” 

“Oh, I believe everything I am told,” said 
the Caterpillar. 

“Nay, but you do not,” replied the Lark; 
“you won’t believe me even about the food, 
and yet that is but a beginning of what I have 
to tell you. Why, Caterpillar, what do you 
think those little eggs will turn out to be?” 

“Butterflies, to be sure,” said the Cater¬ 
pillar. 

"Caterpillars!" sang the Lark; “and you’ll 
find it out in time;” and the Lark flew away, 
for he did not want to stay and contest the 
point with his friend. 

“I thought the Lark had been wise and 
kind,” observed the mild green Caterpillar, 





192 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

once more beginning to walk round the eggs, 
‘/but I find that he is foolish and saucy instead. 
Perhaps he went up too high this time. Ah, 
it’s a pity when people who soar so high are 
silly and rude nevertheless! Dear! I still 
wonder whom he sees, and what he does up 
yonder.” 

“I would tell you if you would believe me,” 
sang the Lark, descending once more. 

“I believe everything I am told,” reiterated 
the Caterpillar, with as grave a face as if it 
were a fact. 

“Then I’ll tell you something else,” cried 
the Lark; “for the best of my news remains 
behind. You will one day be a Butterfly your- 
self/’ 

“Wretched bird!” exclaimed the Cater¬ 
pillar, “you jest with my inferiority—now you 
are cruel as well as foolish. Go away! I 
will ask your advice no more.” 

“I told you you would not believe me,” 
cried the Lark. 

“I believe everything that I am told,” per¬ 
sisted the Caterpillar; “that is”—and she hesi¬ 
tated—“everything that is reasonable to be- 



THE BUTTERFLY 


193 


lieve. But to tell me that butterflies’ eggs are 
caterpillars, and that caterpillars leave off 
crawling and get wings, and become butter¬ 
flies!—Lark! you are too wise to believe such 
nonsense yourself, for you know it is impossi¬ 
ble.” 

“I know no such thing,” said the Lark, 
warmly. ^‘Whether I hover over the corn¬ 
fields of earth, or go up into the depths of the 
sky, I see so many wonderful things, I know 
no reason why there should not be more. Oh, 
Caterpillar! it is because you crawl, because 
you never get beyond your cabbage-leaf, that 
you call any thing impossible/^ 

“Nonsense!” shouted the Caterpillar, “I 
know what’s possible, and what’s not possible, 
according to my experience and capacity, as 
well as you do. Look at my long green body 
and these endless legs, and then talk to me 
about having wings and a painted feathery 
coat.” 

“You would-be-wise Caterpillar!” cried the 
indignant Lark. “Do you not hear how my 
song swells with rejoicing as I soar upwards 
to the mysterious wonder-world above? Oh, 


194 the emerald STORY BOOK 

Caterpillar; what comes to you from thence, 
receive, as I do, upon trust.” 

‘‘That is what you call—” 

“Faith,” interrupted the Lark. 

“How am I to learn Faith?” asked the 
Caterpillar. 

At that moment she felt something at her 
side. She looked round—eight or ten little 
green caterpillars were moving about, and had 
already made a show of a hole in the cabbage- 
leaf. They had broken from the Butterfly’s 
eggs! 

Shame and amazement filled our green 
friend’s heart, but joy soon followed; for, as 
the first wonder was possible, the second might 
be so too. “Teach me your lesson. Lark!” 
she would say; and the Lark sang to her of 
the wonders of the earth below and of the 
heaven above. And the Caterpillar talked 
all the rest of her life to her relations of the 
time when she should be a Butterfly. 

But none of them believed her. She never¬ 
theless had learnt the Lark’s lesson of faith, 
and when she was going into her chrysalis, 
she said— 


THE BUTTERFLY 


195 


“I shall be a Butterfly some day!” 

But her relations thought her head was wan¬ 
dering, and they said, “Poor thing!” 

And when she was a Butterfly, and was go¬ 
ing to die again, she said— 

“I have known many wonders—I have faith 
—I can trust even now for what shall come 
next!” 



THE WIND, A HELPER 

Mary Stewart 

A LITTLE girl was once standing in a dark, 
narrow street playing with some bits of 
coloured paper she had found in an ash-can. 
Suddenly a gust of wind came around the 
street-corner. It blew the coloured scraps 
right out of the child’s hand and carried them 
up over her head, then higher still, over the 
house-tops, until they were out of sight. 

Janie, that was the little girl’s name, 
watched them fly away, with tears in her eyes. 
Her busy mother had given her this day for a 
holiday, she had no toys to play with, and she 
loved those gay bits of paper. As she looked 
after the scraps up into the little patch of blue 
sky, which was all she could see between the 
high houses, she saw a small, white cloud scud¬ 
ding along, just the way the papers had flown. 

“What makes the cloud fly so fast?” thought 
Janie, and as if in answer another gust of 
196 



THE WIND, A HELPER 197 

wind came blowing down the street. ^^Oh, 
wind, blow me, too,” cried Janie, ^‘take me up 
in the sky with the cloud,” and she held out her 
little petticoat. 

The wind filled it and blew her—well, it 
didn’t quite blow her into the sky, but it did a 
kinder thing. It blew her down the dark, 
narrow street, through other streets, each get¬ 
ting wider and cleaner, until at last it blew 
her right into the country. There she found 
herself racing over green fields, with the sky 
overhead so big and so blue that the clouds 
looked like a flock of little sheep. There for 
a moment the wind left her—he had other 
things to do—and Janie stood looking around 
her happy and surprised. It was a spring 
day and the grass, which was waving in the 
wind, was soft and green and full of butter¬ 
cups and daisies. ‘Tar prettier than my scraps 
of paper,” thought Janie. The trees were 
covered with new, green leaves, some of them 
were dressed in pink and white blossoms, and 
their branches swayed in the wind as if they 
were waving a welcome to the little girl. But 
she didn’t have long to stand and look. Back 



198 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

came the wind, bringing new scents of blos¬ 
soms and other sweet spring things with him, 
and off the child ran again. 

Presently she saw in front of her a shining 
blue line, and when she reached it she found 
it was the sea. If any one of us has ever seen 
the sea on a clear windy day we can never for¬ 
get it, and that is just the way Janie felt. The 
waves were high and blue, but they wore great 
white caps which broke against the wind, and 
he scattered them into splendid foamy bits of 
spray, while the waves came dashing over the 
beach. 

It was all so beautiful that Janie took a 
long, deep breath of wind, and suddenly her 
cheeks grew pink and her eyes bright, and you 
never would have known she was the pale, 
sad little Janie who stood in the dark street 
watching her scraps of paper blow away. 

She was standing on the beach gazing out 
to sea in astonishment. For there, on the blue 
water, was something which looked like a 
great bird with its wings outspread, only it 
was far bigger than any bird, and as it 
skimmed over the water she saw men moving 



THE WIND, A HELPER 199 

upon it. Can you guess what it was? It was 
a splendid ship; but as Janie had never seen 
one before, except in pictures, she was much 
puzzled. “What makes it fly so fast?” she 
wondered, and for an answer the wind blew 
her along the beach, through a garden, and 
almost into a little white cottage, where a 
woman was standing with a baby in her arms. 

She didn’t seem to mind a bit when she saw 
a strange little girl come flying down the gar¬ 
den path to her house. She just laughed and 
cried, “This is another trick of my friend the 
wind.” Then she laid the baby down in a 
cradle and took both Janie’s hands, making 
her sit on the door step where the wind had 
dropped her. 

“Please, ma’am,” said Janie, when she could 
get her breath, “can you tell me what makes 
the boat sail?” The woman laughed again 
and answered, “Why, this beautiful wind 
blows her along, of course; that is only one of 
the hundreds of things the wind does for us. 
He can blow so hard that the great ships are 
just driven before him, and he can blow so 
softly that my baby is rocked to sleep. Look 




200 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


at the cradle now.” Janie looked, and there 
in the light wind which seemed to be full of 
the scent of blossoms, the cradle was rocking 
so gently that the baby had fallen asleep. 
Then the mother brought Janie a bowl of 
bread and milk, and while she ate it they 
talked about the wind. 

“He blows away the dead leaves with such 
fury,” said the mother, “that they tear along 
in front of my window like a flock of fright¬ 
ened birds. But when he finds a little flower 
beneath the leaves he blows on its petals so 
softly that it feels as if its mother were kissing 
it. 

“Sometimes, when it comes from the North, 
it brings snow and hail and the beautiful frosts 
of winter. But when it comes from the South 
it brings sweet scents and soft, warm air. The 
East Wind often brings rain and mist, and some 
people don’t like it, but the ground needs the 
rain, the flowers love it, and the East Wind is a 
gift from God, just as the others are. The 
West Wind is blowing to-day, and that is why 
the world looks so fresh and shining.” 

So they talked most of the afternoon, the 


201 


THE WIND, A HELPER 

mother and Janie, until when the sun began to 
sink and the ship came sailing homeward, 
Janie turned again toward the city. 

Very gently this time the wind blew her 
along, beside orchards where the trees were 
rustling their leaves like lullabies, and through 
meadows where, like sleepy children, the flow¬ 
ers were nodding their heads for good-night 
to the dear West Wind. 

And although she was leaving it all, Janie 
was very happy. The woman in the cottage 
by the sea had told her to come back on her 
next holiday. And she knew that although 
she could not always see the dancing trees and 
flowers and waves and ships, she would re¬ 
member that they were waiting for her every 
time she heard the wind rattling the window 
or blowing among the chimneys. 

Just before she went to sleep she looked out 
of her tiny window through which a patch of 
sky could be seen. It was a dark, cloudy 
patch, and Janie was just turning away from 
it when the clouds began to move. The wind 
was still at work, in an instant the clouds had 
been blown away, and through that tiny win- 


202 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


dow Janie saw a bright, clear star shining 
down upon her. ‘‘Thank you, dear wind,” 
she whispered. And then, as she cuddled 
down to sleep she seemed to hear the wind, or 
was it the star, singing softly, “Thank God, 
thank God.” 





THE SPRINGING TREE: 
WILLOWS 

Mrs. Dyson 

The willow is one of the greatest of Mother 
Nature’s puzzles. It will give you years of 
pleasure before you have fully found out all 
its secrets. What is the puzzle? Perhaps 
you say, We all know a willow. Do you? 
Let us see how much you know. It is a weep¬ 
ing tree; its branches and leaves drop to the 
ground. That is true sometimes, not always. 
It grows by the water side. Neither is that 
always true. In early spring it has buds like 
soft pussy-cats, which you love to gather, and 
stroke against your faces, and in summer it has 
long narrow leaves. 

Yes, but if you look at all the pussy-cats you 
can find, you will see that they are very differ¬ 
ent from one another. The willow has two 
kinds of tails growing on different trees. One 
tree has flowers made of stamens, another tree 

203 





204 the emerald story book 

has flowers containing seed-bags, and even of 
these two kinds you will find many different 
sorts. Then if you will look at the same trees 
when the leaves come out, you will perhaps 
be surprised to see that they have not all leaves 
of the same sort. Some are long, narrow and 
pointed, but some are broad and rounded; 
some are white and silky, some are crumpled 
and downy. 

Now you see what is the great puzzle. 
When you see a tree with a long narrow leaf 
like a sword, you are sure at once it is a willow. 
The willow gives its name to this shape; for 
when we see other plants with leaves of this 
pattern, we always call them willow-leaves. 
The flowers of all the willows are very much 
alike. They all grow on tails, true pussy¬ 
cats’ tails, so soft and silky are they. But they 
are the tails of angry pussy-cats, for they stand 
up straight and stiff and thick; they do not 
hang down wagging and waving in a good- 
tempered way. The flowers are soft silky 
scales, fastened closely together on the stalk. 
On the tails of one tree, under each scale, 
there are two, three or five slender stamens. 



THE SPRINGING TREE 205 

each with a double yellow head and between 
these and the stem there is a little honey-bag. 
Under the scales of another tree’s tails there 
are beautiful silken seed-bags, shaped like 
pears, the pointed end just divided into two 
sticky horns. When the seeds are ripe, these 
lovely silk bags split open at the point, and 
the two horns curl back in a beautiful way, 
like two doors opening to make way for the 
crowd of tiny seeds, each one with a great 
plume of whitest silk, which tries to spread 
out to the sun and fresh air. The opening 
seed-bags of all the willows are a charming 
sight. What is all this silk for? To keep the 
seeds warm? Yes, and also to float them 
through the air to a place where they may 
take root and grow. You must look out for 
them early in the year, in late spring and early 
summer, long before other seeds are ripe. 
You will find that the birds are also on the 
lookout,—for food you suppose? No, they 
are building their nests, and they want some¬ 
thing nice and soft with which to line them 
and make a comfortable bed for the eggs and 
the little birds; and what could they have 







2o6 the emerald story book 


better than this yellow silk? The thistle¬ 
down is all destroyed by the winter rains and 
there is nothing else ready yet. 

The willow is the earliest tree, except the 
hazel, to say that spring is coming. It begins 
to get ready in the autumn. Then the buds 
swell and often burst, so that you can see the 
tufts of white silk peeping out as if the flowers 
were in such a hurry they could not wait 
till the spring. All the winter they are grow¬ 
ing, but you are so busy skating and snow 
balling whenever you go out that you have no 
time to watch them, and are quite surprised 
at the first glimpse of the soft pussy-cats in the 
spring. At first only the silky scales show, 
but soon after the golden heads or the funny 
two-horned bottles hang out and the fruit is 
ripe by the time other trees have opened their 
flowers. 

Some people say there are two hundred dif¬ 
ferent kinds of willow trees but others think 
this is making too much of slight differences. 
There are about fifteen kinds which are so 
very different from one another that you will 
easily be able to discover them. 


THE SPRINGING TREE 207 

You already know well, four kinds of wil¬ 
low. Two of them are large trees; one of 
these is always found by the water-side bend¬ 
ing over the still slow streams. It is called 
the white willow because its leaves are cov¬ 
ered on both sides with soft white silk. 

The other is the willow tree which grows 
most frequently in our gardens and by the 
road side. Its leaves are like those of the 
white willow in shape, but on the upper side 
they are bright green; with no silky covering. 
This is called the crack willow, because its 
branches crack and break at the joints so easily. 
Give them just a little blow and they snap at 
once. These are the only kinds of willow that 
grow into large trees. They are generally 
very crooked trees; their trunks split and bend 
and sometimes when near a stream they stretch 
over it as if they wanted to make a bridge 
across. 

The other two willows that you know well 
are large shrubs or little trees not much taller 
than a man. One of them bears very silky 
catkins, and its leaves are always silky, quite 
white on the under side. This willow has 




2o8 the emerald story book 


long, slender arms like fairies’ wands. Cin¬ 
derella’s godmother may have used one of 
them. This is the osier of which we make our 
baskets. If you try to break off one of these 
long arms, you may tug and tug away, but all 
in vain, they are so tough; and as your hand 
slips there comes off into it a long roll of bark, 
leaving the branch smooth and white. You 
can bend these slender shoots as much as you 
like and still they will not snap, and so they 
are just what we want for weaving into light 
baskets. 

The other shrub or little tree is perhaps the 
willow that you know best in the spring. It 
grows in the hedge everywhere and is called 
the goat willow or sallow. It has purplish 
brown branches and from it you probably 
gather your first pussy-cats. It flowers with 
the snowdrop, even while it is yet winter, in 
cold February or March. The first warm 
sunshine is better than any fairy’s wand for 
it turns these flowers into gold. Then the 
bees rejoice; the food they have had in their 
hives during the winter is nearly done, and 
other flowers have scarcely dared to think of 


THE SPRINGING TREE 209 

opening yet. But the bees know the secrets 
of the flowers and they are quite aware of the 
wee honey bag hidden in every flower of that 
thick tail. 

So you see this tree seems so full of life and 
joy, it grows so fast, and is so willing and 
obliging, that we call it by the name willow, 
which means the “springing” tree. 





PUSSY WILLOW 

Kate Louise Brown 


All winter Miss Pussy had been shut up in 
her house by the brook; but one bright morn¬ 
ing in early spring, the door of her house 
opened. Then she stepped out to see the 
world. 

The swelling buds were rocking to and fro 
on the branches, the grass blades were peeping 
above the ground, and a few brave flowers 
were opening their sleepy eyes. 

“Dear me!” cried Pussy, “the wind is sharp 
and cold, if it is a bright day.” 

“Why, whom have we here?” asked the 
brook in great surprise. “True as I live, it 
is Miss Pussy Willow! Good morning. 
Pussy, you are out bright and early; but why 
do you wear that fur hood? Summer is com¬ 
ing and the days grow warmer.” 

“Oh, Mother Nature told me to wear it, 
lest I get a toothache.” 

Everybody was glad to see Pussy. The 


210 





PUSSY WILLOW 


2II 


little brook, the grass, the buds, and the little 
spring birds. But they were all very curious 
to know why she wore her fur hood. 

Poor Pussy! she was tempted more than 
once to take it off, so much was said about it. 
But she didn’t; she thought best to mind 
Mother Nature. Now, it grieves me to say 
Mr. Robin was very bold and saucy. He 
whispered some unkind things to Pussy’s 
friends one day. The next morning, when 
Pussy opened her eyes, the birds, the buds, 
the brook, the grass, and the flowers began 
to whisper to themselves: “Do you suppose 
Pussy Willow has to wear her hood because 
she has no hair? Poor Pussy Willow!” 

Poor Pussy Willow! Brave Pussy felt very 
sad. All she said was: “Wait and see.” 

How surprised every one was a few days 
after this! There was Pussy Willow with no 
fur hood on her head, but bright golden curls 
were dancing up and down in the breeze. 

“Pussy Willow is not a baldhead; she wears 
beautiful golden curls,” cried all her friends. 
Mr. Robin hid his head and flew away, very 
much ashamed. 




THE DRAGON FLY 

Mrs. Alfred Gatty 


WONDER what becomes of the Frog when he 
climbs up out of this world, and disappears so 
that we do not see even his shadow; till, plop! 
he is among us again. Does anybody know 
where he goes to?” 

Thus chattered the grub of a Dragon fly 
as he darted about with his companions in and 
out among the plants at the bottom of a beau¬ 
tiful pond in the centre of a wood. 

“Who cares what the Frog does?” answered 
one who overheard the Grub’s question, “what 
is it to us?” 

“Look out for food for yourself and let 
other people’s business alone,” cried another. 
“But I should like to know,” said the grub. 
“I can see all of you when you pass by me 
among the plants in the water here, and when 
I don’t see you any longer I wonder where 
you have gone. I followed the Frog just 
now as he went upwards, and all at once he 


212 




THE DRAGON FLY 


213 


went to the side of the water, then he began 
to disappear and presently he was gone. Did 
he leave this world? And where did he go?” 

“You idle fellow,” cried another. “See 
what a good bite you have missed with your 
wonderings about nothing.” So saying he 
seized an insect which v/as flitting right in 
front of the Grub. 

Suddenly there was a heavy splash in the 
water and a large yellow Frog swam down to 
the bottom among the grubs. 

“Ask the Frog himself,” suggested a min¬ 
now as he darted by overhead. 

Such a chance of satisfying himself was not 
to be lost, and after taking two or three turns 
round the roots of a water-lily, the grub 
screwed up his courage and, approaching the 
Frog, asked, “Is it permitted to a very un¬ 
happy creature to speak?” 

The Frog turned his gold edged eyes upon 
him in surprise and answered, “Very unhappy 
creatures had better be silent. I never talk 
but when Fm happy.” 

“But I shall be happy if I may talk,” said 
the Grub. 


214 the emerald story book 

^Talk away then,” said the Frog. 

“But it is something I want to ask you.” 

“Ask away,” exclaimed the Frog. 

“What is there beyond the world?” inquired 
the Grub in a very quiet way. 

“What world do you mean—this pond?” 
asked the Frog, rolling his goggle eyes round 
and round. 

“I mean the place we live in whatever you 
may choose to call it. I call it the world,” said 
the Grub. 

“Do you, sharp little fellow? Then what is 
the place you don’t live in?” 

“That’s just what I want you to tell me,” 
replied the little Grub. 

“Oh, indeed, little one. I shall tell you, 
then. It is dry land.” 

“Can one swim about there?” inquired the 
Grub. 

“I should think not,” chuckled the Frog. 

“Dry land is not water. That is just what 
it is not. Dry land is something like the 
sludge at the bottom of this pond, only it is 
not wet because there’s no water.” 

“Really! What is there then?” 



THE DRAGON FLY 


215 

“That’s the difficulty,” exclaimed Froggy. 

“There is something, of course, they call 
it air, but how to explain it I don’t know. 
Now just take my advice and ask no more 
silly questions. I tell you the thing is not 
worth your troubling yourself about. But I 
admire your spirit,” continued the Frog. “I 
will make you an offer. If you choose to take 
a seat on my back I will carry you up to dry 
land and you can judge for yourself what is 
there and how you like it.” 

“I accept with gratitude, honoured Frog,” 
said the little Grub. 

“Drop yourself down on my back, then, and 
cling to me as well as you can. Come now, 
hold fast.” 

The little Grub obeyed and the Frog, swim¬ 
ming gently upwards, soon reached the bul¬ 
rushes by the water’s side. 

“Hold fast,” repeated the Frog, and then, 
raising his head out of the pond, he clambered 
up the bank and got upon the grass. 

“Now, then, here we are,” exclaimed the 
Frog. “What do you think of dry land?” 

But no one answered. 






2i6 the emerald story book 


^‘Hallow! Gone? That’s just what I was 
afraid of. He has floated off my back, stupid 
fellow. But perhaps he has made his way to 
the water’s edge here after all, and then I can 
help him out. I’ll wait about and see.” 

And away went Froggy with a leap along 
the grass by the edge of the pond glancing 
every now and then among the bulrushes to 
see if he could spy his little friend, the dragon 
fly grub. 

But what had become of the little grub? 
He had really clung to the Frog’s back with 
all his might; but the moment the mask of his 
face began to issue from the water, a shock 
seemed to strike his frame and he reeled from 
his resting place back into the pond panting 
and struggling for life. 

“Terrible,” he cried as soon as he came to 
himself. “The Frog has deceived me. He 
cannot go there, at any rate.” And with these 
words, the little Grub moved away to his old 
companions to talk over with them what he 
had done and where he had been. 

“It was terrible, terrible. But the sun is be¬ 
ginning to set and I must take a turn around 


THE DRAGON FLY 


217 

the pond in search of food.” And away went 
the little dragon fly grub for a ramble among 
the water plants. 

On his return who should he see sitting 
calmly on a stone at the bottom of the pond 
but his friend the yellow Frog. 

‘‘You here!” cried the startled Grub. “You 
never left this world at all then. How you 
deceived me, Frog!” 

“Clumsy fellow,” replied the Frog. “Why 
did you not sit fast as I told you?” 

The little Grub soon told his story while 
the Frog sat staring at him in silence out of 
his great goggle eyes. 

“And now,” said the Grub, “since there is 
nothing beyond this world, all your stories of 
going there must be mere inventions. As I 
have no wish to be fooled by any more of your 
tales, I will bid you a very good evening.” 

“You’ll do no such thing,” said the Frog, 
“until you have heard my story.” 

“As you wish,” answered the Grub. 

Then the Frog told him how he had lin¬ 
gered by the edge of the pond in hope of seeing 
the little Grub again, how he had hopped 




2i8 the emerald story book 


about in the grass, how he had peeped among 
the bulrushes. 

^‘And at last,” he continued, “though I did 
not see you yourself, I saw a sight which has 
more interest for you than for any other crea¬ 
ture that lives,” and then the Frog stopped 
speaking. 

“What was it?” asked the inquisitive little 
Grub. 

“Up the polished green stalk of one of those 
bulrushes I saw a little dragon-fly grub slowly 
and gradually climb till he had left the water 
behind him. As I continued to look, I no¬ 
ticed that a rent seemed to come in your 
friend’s body. I cannot tell you in what way 
the thing happened, but after many struggles, 
there came from it one of those beautiful crea¬ 
tures who float through the air and dazzle 
the eyes of all who catch glimpses of them as 
they pass—a glorious Dragon-fly! 

“As if just waking from a dream he lifted 
his wings out of the covering. Though 
shrivelled and damp at first they stretched and 
expanded in the sunshine till they glistened 
as if with fire. I saw the beautiful creature 


THE DRAGON FLY 


219 


at last poise himself for a second or two in 
the air before he took flight. I saw the four 
gauzy wings flash back the sunshine that was 
poured on them. I heard the clash with 
which they struck the air and I saw his body 
give out rays of glittering blue and green as 
he darted along and away over the water in 
circles that seemed to know no end. Then I 
plunged below to find you out and tell you the 
good news.” 

“It’s a wonderful story,” said the little 
Grub. 

“A wonderful story, indeed,” repeated the 
Frog. 

“And you really think, then, that the glori¬ 
ous creature you saw was once a—” 

“Silence,” cried the Frog. “All your ques¬ 
tions have been answered. It is getting dark 
•^here in your world. I must return to my 
grassy home on dry land. Go to rest, little 
fellow, and awake in hopes.” 

The Frog swam close to the bank and 
clambered up its side while the little Grub re¬ 
turned to his companions to wait and hope. 






THE CICADA’S STORY* 

Agnes McClellan Daulton 


Once upon a time a grasshopper introduced 
me to Mr. Periodical Cicada. He was a very 
pleasant fellow and not a bit stuck up, al¬ 
though the poets have written of him, and al¬ 
most every one knows him by the name of 
seventeen year locust, though he really is not 
a locust at all. I was pleased to meet him, and 
asked him if he would mind telling me what 
he did all those seventeen years, and he re¬ 
plied: 

“Not at all, now that they are over it is very 
pleasant to talk about them.’’ Then he began 
his story. “Seventeen years ago this June, in 
an old orchard, my mother tucked away in 
the green twigs of a mossy apple tree hundreds 
of little cradles. I was sleeping in one and 
in the others were my brothers and sisters. 
While my mother was at work our father sat 

* By courtesy of the author. 


220 


THE CICADA’S STORY 221 

on a twig close by and sang the merriest lull¬ 
aby that babies ever listened to. 

‘‘Several weeks later we little ones crept out 
of our cradles and dropped lightly to the 
ground beneath the tree; then each of us dug 
a little burrow and hid ourselves away in the 
warm, moist soil near sappy rootlets that gave 
us our food. 

“We were very tiny at first, but little by little 
we grew, always making our cells bigger to 
fit, so that we were as snug and cosy as babies 
could be, only it was very dark and lonely. 

“The rootlets would tell us when it was 
spring, of how the pink and white blossoms 
were holding up perfumed cups to the blue 
sky; of the tree musical with the humming of 
the bees that came for honey; then of summer, 
when birds nested and sang among the green 
boughs; later of autumn, of apples mellow 
and ripe, globes of red and gold, that fell with 
a muffled thud in the long, green grass; and at 
last of the winter, and of the fleecy snow that 
clothed the old tree in soft white. They 
whispered of heat, of cold, of sunshine and 
rain, of freezing winds and balmy breezes, 






222 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


but we baby Cicadas neither understood nor 
cared, and there tucked away in our gloomy 
cells we lived seventeen long years. 

‘‘But one May day, in the sweetest of apple 
blossoming time, all we little Cicadas made up 
our minds to go out into the world and seek 
our fortunes. Then every one of us began 
digging and carrying up to the surface tiny 
pellets of soft clay. 

“My, but we did work hard, and by the time 
the big sun had hidden his round face in the 
west each of us had built a funny little chim¬ 
ney six inches high.” 

“Oh, how lovely!” I cried; “and please, Mr. 
Periodical Cicada, what were they for?” 

But the Cicada only shook his head at me 
gravely, as much as to say that it was a Cicada 
family secret. 

“When the chimneys were done,” he went 
on, “we all scrambled up and began hunting a 
safe place to rest. I soon found a fine twig 
where I held on for dear life. I wasn’t very 
pretty, being dressed in a brown coat, and be¬ 
sides, I had gotten very muddy building my 
chimney. Now while I was hanging there 



THE CICADA’S STORY 


223 


hoping to dry off—click—and goodness me! 
if my little brown jacket hadn’t split down my 
back from collar to waistband. I felt very 
bad, for even if it was a muddy, ugly brown 
coat, it was all I had, and I had no idea where 
to get another in the big, cold world I had 
just come into. But when I stepped out of my 
coat to see if I could mend it, my stockings 
and shoes came off with it and there I hung, 
if you will believe me, dressed in the prettiest 
cream-coloured suit you ever saw. I never 
was more surprised in my life. 

“Just then, I happened to catch a glimpse 
of one of my sisters, and she also was in cream, 
and there was a brother; yes, there was the 
whole family, and every one of us in a lovely 
suit of cream-colour. But, oh, when we got a 
good look at each other we laughed till we al¬ 
most fell from our perches, for each of us had 
pink eyes and heavy, fierce eyebrows, and 
queer humps on the sides of our necks. Such 
a ridiculous looking lot of youngsters you 
never saw. Beside us hung our old, muddy 
clothes, coat, shoes, stockings, and all. If you 
look in the orchard you can often find these 



224 the emerald story book 

old clothes long after the Cicadas have flown 
away.” 

“Oh, Mr. Cicada, how I should love to have 
seen you!” I exclaimed. “I shall look for 
little brown coats as soon as I get home.” 

“This was only the beginning,” went on 
Periodical. “The most wonderful things 
were to come; for slowly, slowly those humps 
on our necks began to swell, and after a time 
they opened out into two lovely, gauzy wings, 
veined with pearl colour. When the great 
round moon came gliding up over the orchard 
and shed down upon us her gentle, silvery 
light, there we hung like some strange, beau¬ 
tiful flowers. The apple blossoms thought we 
were flowers and whispered to us some of the 
prettiest honey and pollen secrets; they were 
so provoked when we flew away and they 
found out their mistake—but they need not 
fear for we will never tell; no, indeed, never! 

“When morning came we found our beauty 
had been very fleeting, for our lovely cream- 
coloured suits had changed to greenish-brown, 
and our wings, though still transparent, were 
dull of colour. The males among us were 



THE CICADA’S STORY 225 

drummers. Deep within my body, I carried 
two drums, each being covered by a plate that 
you can easily see on the outside. Now, I 
don’t need drumsticks, for my drums are air 
instruments, and by twitching my muscles I 
can snap my drumheads faster and faster, mak¬ 
ing the gayest sort of a roll-call. Listen to 
this: Whirr-r-r-r-rT 





EDITH AND THE BEES 

Helen Keller 


One beautiful morning last June, a sweet little 
girl thought she would go out into the garden 
and pick some flowers for one of her play¬ 
mates, who was sick and obliged to stay shut 
up in the house this fragrant summer morning. 
‘‘Tommy shall have the most beautiful flowers 
in the garden,” thought Edith, as she took her 
little basket and pruning scissors, and ran out 
into the garden. She looked like a lovely 
fairy or a sunbeam, flitting about the rose¬ 
bushes. I think she was the most exquisite 
rose in all the garden herself. Her heart was 
full of thoughts of Tommy, while she worked 
away busily. “I wish I knew something that 
would please Tommy more than anything 
else!” she said to herself. “I would love to 
make him happy,” and she sat down on the 
edge of a beautiful fountain to think. 

While she sat there thinking, two dear little 
226 


EDITH AND THE BEES 227 

birds began to take their bath in the lovely, 
sparkling v^ater that rippled and danced in 
the sunshine. They would plunge into the 
water and come out dripping, perch on the 
side of the fountain for a moment, and plunge 
in again. Then they would shake the bright 
drops from their feathers, and fly away sing¬ 
ing sweeter than ever. Edith thought the 
little birds enjoyed their bath as much as her 
baby brother did his. 

When they had flown away to a distant tree, 
Edith noticed a beautiful pink rosebud, more 
beautiful than any she had yet seen. “Oh, 
how lovely you are!” she cried; and, running 
to the bush where it was, she bent down the 
branch, that she might examine it more closely, 
when out of the heart of the rose came a small 
insect and stung her pretty cheek. The little 
girl began to weep loudly, and ran to her 
father who was working in another part of the 
yard. “Why, my little girl!” said he, “a bee 
has stung you.” He drew out the sting, and 
bathed her swollen cheek in cool water, at the 
same time telling her many interesting things 
about the wonderful little bees. 







228 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


not cry any more, my child,” said her 
father, “and I will take you to see a kind 
gentleman who keeps many hives of bees.” 

“Oh, thank you!” cried Edith, brushing 
away her tears. “I will run and get ready 
now.” 

The bee-master, as everybody called the old 
man who kept the bees, was very glad to show 
his little pets, and to tell Edith all he knew 
about them. He led her to a hive, made 
wholly of glass, so that she might watch the 
bees at their work. 

“There are three kinds of bees in every 
hive,” said the gentleman. “That large bee 
in the middle is the queen bee. She is the 
most important bee in the hive. She has a 
sting, but seldom makes use of it. Those busy 
bees are the worker bees. It was probably a 
worker that stung you this morning, my little 
girl,” said the bee-master. 

Edith thought she did not like the worker 
bee as well as the others; but when she heard 
what industrious little workers they are, and 
how they take all the care of the young bees. 


EDITH AND THE BEES 229 

build the cells of wax, and bring in the honey, 
she felt much more affection for them. 

“What do the bees do in winter when there 
are no flowers from which to gather honey?” 
inquired Edith. 

“They sleep during the long, cold winter 
days, and awaken when the warm spring re¬ 
turns,” replied her kind instructor. 

“Now,” said Edith’s father, “we had better 
go, or you will not get to see Tommy to-day.” 

Then the little girl thanked her new friend 
for telling her so much about his interesting 
pets, and promised to come and see him as 
often as she could. 

“Oh, father!” cried Edith, as they walked 
homeward, “I am almost glad that the naughty 
little bee stung me this morning, for now I 
shall have something interesting to tell 
Tommy.” 





THE LITTLE TADPOLE ^ 

Katharine Pyle 

The brook flows down past the field, around 
the hill, and through the wood. 

There are all sorts of things in the brook: 
water cress and snails, and little darting fishes, 
eelgrass and crawfish, and under a stone where 
the water is cool and deep a little brown lizard 
used to live. 

The lizard was a busy little thing, always 
anxious about something or other. She told 
the crawfish when to shed their shells; she 
showed the snails where to find dead leaves; 
and she attended to every one else’s business 
as well as her own. 

One day when she was crawling up the 
stream, she saw a tadpole lying in a sunny 
shallow, with its nose almost out of the water. 

‘^That tadpole oughtn’t to lie there in the 
sun,” said the lizard to herself. “It’s too 

* From “Pyle’s Prose and Verse For Children.” Copyright 
1899, by Katherine Pyle, American Book Co. 

230 


THE LITTLE TADPOLE 231 

warm. I think I’ll tell him.” So she crawled 
up to where the tadpole was lying. 

As she came nearer she heard the tadpole 
whispering softly to himself. ^‘Oh, how beau¬ 
tiful! how beautiful!” he was saying. 

‘‘What is so beautiful?” asked the lizard 
curiously, looking about her. 

“That singing!” cried the tadpole. “Don’t 
you hear it?” 

And now that the lizard listened, she did 
indeed hear a perfect chorus of birds singing 
their morning songs in wood and field and 
thicket. 

“Yes, it’s pretty enough,” said the lizard. 
“But you oughtn’t to be lying here in the hot 
sun. You’ll make yourself sick.” 

The tadpole only wriggled impatiently, and 
then lay still, listening. But presently he 
turned his little dull eyes on the lizard. “I 
suppose you have often seen birds coming 
down to the stream to bathe,” he said. “Do 
you think I look anything like one?” 

“Like a bird!” cried the lizard. “No, you 
don’t.” 

“Well, I don’t see why not,” said the tad- 






232 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

pole. “To be sure, I haven’t any legs, but I 
have a tail.” 

“Yes,” said the lizard, “but birds have beaks 
and feathers and wings as well, and you 
haven’t anything but a body and a tail.” 

“That is true,” said the tadpole, and he 
sighed heavily. 

As the lizard had said, it was warm up in 
the shallow where the tadpole lay; but she was 
curious now as to why the tadpole should 
want to look like a bird, so she settled herself 
down more comfortably and went on talking. 

“Now, I should like to know,” she said, 
“why you want to look like a bird.” 

At first the tadpole made no answer; he 
seemed to be either shy or dull, but when the 
lizard asked him again, he said: “I don’t 
know.” 

Then he was silent again; and the lizard 
was about to go away when the tadpole sud¬ 
denly went on: “It’s because there seems to 
be something inside of me that must sing, and 
I’ve tried and tried, until all the fishes and 
even the snails laugh at me, and I can’t make a 


THE LITTLE TADPOLE 233 

sound. I think if I only had legs, and could 
hop about like a bird, I could do it.” 

“But I don’t see why you should want to 
sing,” said the lizard. “I never did.” 

Still, the tadpole seemed so grieved about 
it that she felt sorry for him, and stayed there 
in the shallow talking to him for quite a long 
time; and the next morning she went to see 
him again. 

This was the beginning of a friendship be¬ 
tween the two; and though the lizard could 
not understand why the tadpole should wish to 
sing, she never made fun of him, but tried to 
think of some plan by which he might learn 
to do it. 

Once she suggested that if he were only up 
on the shore he might be able to do some¬ 
thing about it. So he wriggled himself up 
half out of the water; but almost immediately 
he grew so sick that the lizard had to pull him 
back again by his tail, feeling terribly fright¬ 
ened, all the while, lest it should break. 

It was the very next morning that the lizard 
found the tadpole in a state of wild excite- 



234 the emerald STORY BOOK 

merit. ^‘Oh, Lizard, Lizard!” he cried, shak¬ 
ing all over from his nose to his tail. “Just 
look at me! I’m getting legs.” 

It was true. There they were, still very 
small and weak, but really legs. The lizard 
and the tadpole had been too busy talking over 
how to make them grow to notice that they 
were already budding. They were still more 
excited when, soon afterwards, they saw near 
the front part of the tadpole’s body two more 
little buds; and the lizard was sure these would 
prove to be wings. 

It was a terrible blow to them when they 
found these were not wings at all, but more 
legs. “Now it’s all over,” cried the tadpole, 
in despair. “It was bad enough not to have 
wings; but now that I’m getting legs this way, 
there’s no knowing where it’ll end.” 

The lizard, too, was almost hopeless, until 
suddenly she remembered a crawfish she had 
known who had lost one of his legs in a fight, 
and it had hardly hurt him at all. She said 
perhaps she could pull the tadpole’s front legs 
off the same way. 

He was quite willing for her to try, but at 


THE LITTLE TADPOLE 235 

the first twitch she gave he cried out, ^^Ouch! 
that hurts!” so the lizard had to stop. 

She still thought, however, that something 
could have been done about it if the tadpole 
had not been such a coward and had let her 
pull harder. 

But worse was to follow. 

One morning, before the lizard was up, the 
tadpole came wriggling over to the door of 
her house. 

^‘Lizard, Lizard, come out here,” he cried. 
Then, as soon as she came out, he begged her 
to get a piece of eelgrass and measure his tail. 

‘TVe been afraid it was shrinking for some 
time,” he said, ‘‘and now Pm almost sure of 
it. I have such strange feelings, too. Some¬ 
times I feel as though I must have air, and I 
get up on a stone so that I’m almost out of the 
water, and only then am I comfortable.” 

Hastily the lizard got the eelgrass and 
measured. Then they sat staring at each other 
in dismay. The tail was almost gone! 

Still, the lizard would not give up all hope. 

That same crawfish that had lost a leg lived 
farther down the stream, and he was very old 



236 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

and wise. She would get him to come and 
look at the tadpole and give his advice. 

So the kindly little lizard bustled away, and 
soon she came back, to where the tadpole was 
lying, and the crawfish came with her, twid¬ 
dling his feelers, and staring both ways with 
his goggle eyes. 

‘‘Sick tadpole!” he cried. “This is no tad¬ 
pole!” Then, coming closer, the crawfish 
went on: “Why are you lying here? Why 
aren’t you over in the swamp singing with all 
the rest of them? Don’t you know you are 
a frog?” 

“A frog!” cried the lizard. 

But the young tadpole frog leaped clear out 
of the brook with a joyous cry. 

“A frog!” he shouted. “Why, that’s the 
best of all! If that’s true I must say good-bye, 
little Lizard. Hey for the wide green swamp 
and the loud frog chorus under the light of the 
moon! Good-bye, little friend, good-bye! I 
shall never forget what you have done for me.” 

So the frog went away to join his brothers. 

The little lizard felt quite lonely for a while 
after the frog had gone; but she comforted 


THE LITTLE TADPOLE 237 

herself by thinking how happy he must be. 

Often in the twilight, or when the moon was 
bright, she listened to the chorus of frogs as 
they sang over in the swamp, and wondered 
if the one who sang so much louder and deeper 
than the rest was the little frog who had tried 
so hard to be a bird. 

“After all,” she said to herself, “there are 
more ways of singing than one.” 


MISTER HOP-TOAD 

James Whitcomb Riley 

Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad! Glad to see you 
out! 

Bin a month 0’ Sundays since I seen you here¬ 
about. 

Kind 0’ bin a-layin’ in, from the frost and 
snow? 

Glad to see you out ag’in, it’s been so long 
ago. 


BUZ AND HUM 

Maurice Noel 


The time came when Buz and Hum, two 
young bees, were allowed to try their wings. 

“Follow me,” said a friendly older bee; “I 
can spare time to fly a little way; and when I 
stop, you stop, too.” 

“All right,” cried Buz, trembling with ex¬ 
citement. 

Hum said nothing, but her wings began to 
move, almost in spite of herself. 

Away went the bee, as straight as a line 
from the mouth of the hive, and away flew 
Buz and Hum after her; but at first starting 
they both found it a little difficult to keep quite 
straight, and Buz knocked against the board to 
begin with, and nearly stopped herself, as she 
had not learned how to rise. 

The older bee did not go far, and lit on the 
branch of a peach tree which was growing 
against a wall near by. Buz came after her 
238 


BUZ AND HUM 


239 

in a great hurry, but missed the branch and 
gave herself a bang against the wall. Hum 
saw this, and managed to stop herself in time; 
but she did not judge her distance very well 
either; and got on the peach tree in a scram¬ 
bling sort of way. 

^‘Very good,” said their friend, as they all 
three stood together; ‘‘you will soon be able 
to take care of yourself now; but just let me 
see you back to the hive.” 

So off they flew again, and lighted on the 
board in a very creditable manner. 

“Now,” said the bee, “I shall leave you; 
but before I go let me advise you, as a friend, 
not to quit the garden to-day; there are plenty 
of flowers, and plenty of opportunities for you 
to meet with ‘Experience,’ without flying over 
any of the four walls.” 

“Who is Experience?” asked Buz and Hum 
together. 

“Oh! somebody to whom you are going to 
be introduced, who will teach you more in a 
day than you could learn from me in a week. 
Good-bye.” 

So saying, she disappeared into the hive. 



240 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

“Isn’t it too delightful?” exclaimed Buz to 
Hum. “Flying! why it’s even more fun that 
I thought!” 

“It is,” said Hum; “but I should like to get 
some honey at once.” 

“Of course,” replied Buz, “only I should 
like to fly a long way to get it.” 

“I want to fill a cell quickly,” said Hum. 

“Oh, yes, to be sure! What a delightful 
thing it will be to put one’s proboscis down 
into every flower and see what’s there! Do 
you know,” added Buz, putting out her pro¬ 
boscis, “I feel as if I could suck honey tre¬ 
mendously; don’t you?” 

“Yes, yes,” cried Hum. “I long to be at it; 
let’s be off at once.” 

So away they went and lit on a bed of flow¬ 
ers. Hum spent the day between the hive and 
that bed, and was quite, quite happy; but Buz, 
though she, too, liked collecting the honey, 
wanted to have more excitement in getting it; 
and every now and then, as she passed to and 
from the hive, a lovely field of clover, not far 
off, sent forth such a delicious smell, as the 


BUZ AND HUM 


241 


breeze swept over it, that she was strongly 
tempted to disregard the advice she had been 
given, and to hurry off to it. 

At last she could stand it no longer; and, 
rising high into the air, she sailed over the 
wall and went out into the world beyond. 

And so she reached the field of clover, and, 
flying quite low over the flowers, was aston¬ 
ished to see how many bees were busy among 
them—bumble-bees without end, and plenty 
of honey-bees, too; in fact, the air was filled 
with the pleasant murmur that they made. 

^‘To be sure,” said Buz to herself, “this is 
the place for me! Poor, dear old Hum! I 
hope she is enjoying herself as much as I am. 
I don’t mean to be idle either, so here goes for 
some honey.” 

Buz was very diligent, indeed, and soon 
collected as much honey as she could carry. 
But by the time she had done this she found 
herself close to the farther end of the clover 
field, and while resting for a moment, before 
starting to carry her load to the hive, she no¬ 
ticed a little pond in the corner. Feeling 



242 THE EMERALD STORY BOOR 

thirsty after her hard work, she flew off to 
take a few sips; but just as she reached the 
pond and was in the act of descending, a light 
gust of wind caught her and turned her half 
over, and before she could recover herself she 
was plunged far out into the water! 

Poor Buz! She was a brave little bee, but 
this was a terrible accident; and after a few 
wild struggles she almost gave herself up. 
The water was so cold, and she felt herself so 
helpless in it; and then the accident had hap¬ 
pened so suddenly, and taken her so utterly 
by surprise, that it is no wonder she lost cour¬ 
age. Only for a moment though; just as she 
was giving up in despair the hard and seem¬ 
ingly useless work of paddling and struggling 
with all her poor little legs at once, she saw 
that a bit of stick was floating near her, and 
with renewed energy she attempted to get to 
it. Alas! It was all she could do to keep 
her head above water; as for moving along 
through it, that seemed impossible, and she 
was tempted to give up once more. It was 
very hard though; there was the stick, not 
more than a foot away from her. If she could 



BUZ AND HUM 


243 


only reach it! At any rate, she was deter¬ 
mined it should not be her fault if she was un¬ 
successful; so she battled away harder than 
ever, though her strength began to fail and 
she was becoming numbed with the cold. 
Just as she made this last effort another gust 
of wind swept over the pond, and Buz saw that 
the stick began to move through the water, 
and to come nearer and nearer to her. The 
fact was that a small twig sticking up from it 
acted as a sail, though Buz did not know this. 
And now the stick was quite close, almost 
within reach; in another moment she would 
be on it. Ah! but a moment seems a long 
time when one is at the last gasp, as poor Buz 
was. 

Would she be drowned after all? No! 
Just as she was sinking she touched the stick 
with one little claw, and held on as only 
drowning people can; and then she got an¬ 
other claw safely lodged, and was able to rest 
for a moment. Oh! the relief of that, after 
such a long ceaseless struggle! 

But even then it was very hard to get up on 
the stick, very hard indeed. However, Buz 


244 the emerald STORY BOOK 

managed it at last, and dragged herself quite 
out of the cold water. 

By this time the breeze was blowing stead¬ 
ily over the pond, and the stick would soon 
reach the bank; but Buz felt very miserable 
and cold, and her wings clung tightly to her, 
and she looked dreadfully forlorn. 

The pond, too, was overshadowed by trees 
so there were no sunbeams to warm her. 
‘‘Ah,” thought she, “if I can manage to drag 
myself up into the sunshine and rest and be 
well warmed, I shall soon be better.” 

Well, the bank was safely reached at last! 
but Buz, all through her life, never forgot 
what a business it was climbing up the side. 
The long grasses yielded to her weight, and 
bent almost straight down, as if on purpose to 
make it as up-hill work for her as possible. 
And even when she reached the top it took her 
a weary while to get across the patch of dark 
shadow and out into the glad sunlight beyond; 
but she managed to arrive there at last, and 
crawling on the top of a stone which had been 
well warmed by the sun’s rays, she rested for 
a long time. 



BUZ AND HUM 


245 

At last she recovered sufficiently to make 
her way, by a succession of short flights, back 
to the hive. After the first of these flights 
she felt so dreadfully weak that she almost 
doubted being able to accomplish the journey, 
and began to despond. 

“If I ever do get home,” she said to herself, 
“I will tell Hum all about it, and how right 
she was to take advice.” 

Now, whether it was the exercise that did 
her good, or that the sun’s rays became hotter 
that afternoon, cannot be known, but this is 
certain, that Buz felt better after every flight. 
When she reached the end of the clover field, 
she sipped a little honey, cleaned herself with 
her feet, stretched her wings, and, with the 
sun glistening brightly on her, looked quite 
fine again. Her last flight brought her to the 
top of the kitchen-garden wall. After resting 
here, she opened her wings and flew gaily to 
the hive, which she entered just as if nothing 
had happened. 


THE STORY WITHOUT AN END 

IN THE GREEN MEADOW 

Translated by Sarah Austin from the German 
OF A. Carove 

There was once a child who lived in a little 
hut, and in the hut there was nothing but a 
little bed, and a looking-glass which hung in 
a dark corner. Now the child cared nothing 
at all about the looking-glass, but as soon as 
the first sunbeam glided softly through the 
casement and kissed his sweet eyelids, and the 
finch and the linnet waked him merrily with 
their morning songs, he arose and went out 
into the green meadow. And he begged flour 
of the primrose, and sugar of the violet, and 
butter of the buttercup; he shook dew-drops 
from the cowslip into the cup of a harebell; 
spread out a large lime-leaf, set his little 
breakfast upon it, and feasted daintily. Some¬ 
times he invited a humming bee, oftener a 
gay butterfly, to partake of his feast; but his 
246 


STORY WITHOUT AN END 247 

favourite guest was the blue dragon-fly. The 
bee murmured a good deal, in a solemn tone, 
about his riches; but the child thought that 
if he were a bee, heaps of treasure would not 
make him gay and happy; and that it must 
be much more delightful and glorious to float 
about in the free and fresh breezes of spring, 
and to hum joyously in the web of the sun¬ 
beams, than, with heavy feet and heavy heart, 
to stow the silver wax and the golden honey 
into cells. 

To this the butterfly assented and he told 
how, once on a time, he too had been greedy 
and sordid; how he had thought of nothing 
but eating, and had never once turned his eyes 
upwards to the blue heavens. At length, how¬ 
ever, a complete change had come over him 
and instead of crawling spiritless about the 
dirty earth, half dreaming, he all at once 
awaked as out of a deep sleep. And now he 
could rise into the air and it was his greatest 
joy sometimes to play with the light, and to 
reflect the heavens in the bright eyes of his 
wings, sometimes to listen to the soft language 
of the flowers, and catch their secrets. Such 


248 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

talk delighted the child, and his breakfast was 
the sweeter to him and the sunshine on leaf 
and flower seemed to him more bright and 
cheering. 

But when the bee had flown off to beg from 
flower to flower, and the butterfly had flut¬ 
tered away to his playfellows, the dragon-fly 
still remained poised on a blade of grass. 
Her slender and burnished body, more 
brightly and deeply blue than the deep blue 
sky, glistened in the sunbeam and her net- 
like wings laughed at the flowers because they 
could not fly, but must stand still and abide 
the wind and the rain. The dragon-fly sipped 
a little of the child’s clear dew-drops and 
blue-violet honey, and then whispered her 
winged words. And the child made an end 
of his repast, closed his dark blue eyes, bent 
down his beautiful head, and listened to the 
sweet prattle. 

Then the dragon-fly told much of the merry 
life in the green wood,—how sometimes she 
played hide-and-seek with her playfellows 
under the broad leaves of the oak and the 
beech trees or hunt-the-hare along the sur- 


STORY WITHOUT AN END 249 

face of the still waters or sometimes quietly 
watched the sunbeams, as they flew busily 
from moss to flower and from flower to bush, 
and shed life and warmth over all. But at 
night, she said, the moonbeams glided softly 
around the wood, and dropped dew into the 
mouths of all the thirsty plants; and when the 
dawn pelted the slumberers with the soft 
roses of heaven, some of the half-drunken 
flowers looked up and smiled, but most of 
them could not so much as raise their heads 
for a long, long time. 

Such stories did the dragon-fly tell and as 
the child sat motionless, with his eyes shut, 
and his head rested on his little hand, she 
thought he had fallen asleep, so poised her 
double wings and flew into the rustling wood. 

THE STORY OF A DROP OF WATER 

But the child was only sunk into a dream 
of delight, and was wishing he were a sun¬ 
beam or a moonbeam; and he would have 
been glad to hear more and more, and forever. 
But at last, as all was still, he opened his eyes 
and looked around for his dear guest, but she 






250 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

was flown far away; so he could not bear to 
sit there any longer alone, and he rose and 
went to the gurgling brook. It gushed and 
rolled so merrily, and tumbled so wildly along 
as it hurried to throw itself head-over-heels 
into the river, just as if the great massy rock 
out of which it sprang were close behind it, 
and could only be escaped by a break-neck 
leap. 

Then the child began to talk to the little 
waves, and asked them whence they came. 
They would not stay to give him an answer, 
but danced away, one over another, till at 
last, that the sweet child might not be grieved, 
a drop of water stopped behind a piece of 
rock. From her the child heard strange his¬ 
tories; but he could not understand them all, 
for she told him about her former life, about 
the depths of the mountain. 

“A long while ago,” said the drop of water, 
‘T lived with my countless sisters in the great 
ocean, in peace and unity. We had all sorts 
of pastimes; sometimes we mounted up high 
into the air, and peeped at the stars; then we 
sank plump down deep below, and watched 


STORY WITHOUT AN END 251 

how the coral-builders work till they are tired, 
that they may reach the light of day at last. 
But I was conceited, and thought myself much 
better than my sisters. And so one day, when 
the sun rose out of the sea, I clung fast to one 
of his hot beams, and thought that now I 
should reach the stars, and become one of 
them. But I had not ascended far, when the 
sunbeam shook me off, and, in spite of all 
I could say or do, let me fall into a dark cloud. 
And soon a flash of fire darted through the 
cloud, and now I thought I must surely die; 
but the whole cloud laid itself down softly 
upon the top of a mountain, and so I escaped. 
Now I thought I should remain hidden, when 
all on a sudden, I slipped over a round pebble, 
fell from one stone to another, down into the 
depths of the mountain, till at last it was pitch 
dark, and I could neither see nor hear any¬ 
thing. Then I found, indeed, that ‘pride 
goeth before a fall,’ resigned myself to my 
fate, and, as I had already laid aside all my 
unhappy pride in the cloud, my portion was 
now the salt of humility; and after under¬ 
going many purifications from the hidden 









252 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

virtues of metals and minerals, I was at length 
permitted to come up once more into the free 
cheerful air and now will I run back to my 
sisters, and there wait patiently till I am called 
to something better.” 

But hardly had she done when the root of 
a forget-me-not caught the drop of water by 
her hair, and sucked her in, that she might 
become a floweret, and twinkle brightly as a 
blue star on the green firmament of earth. 


LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT 

There was once a little plant that grew by 
a shady brook. It had many companions 
even in this quiet spot. The great branches 
of the old tree stretched over it, and the beau¬ 
tiful flowers were friendly; but it did not seem 
happy. The flowers often thought they heard 
it sigh as its head drooped almost to the 
ground. 

‘‘How I wish I might have flowers like the 
other plants,” it said to itself, “blue ones, 
the colour of the beautiful sky. There is so 
much blue, surely some could be spared for 
the earth. Then the children would not al¬ 
ways need to look up to see the sky.” But it 
kept its secret close to its heart and only bent 
its head a little lower. 

“What makes you droop so, little plant?” 
asked one of the flowers. “Your leaves are 
quite down again. Surely the sun is not too 
warm here.” 


253 



254 the emerald STORY BOOK 

‘‘Tell us,” said the others, “perhaps we can 
be of some help to you. We want to see you 
look up again at the sky as you used to do.” 

“It would be of no use to tell you,” answered 
the little plant. “I have often whispered my 
secret to the old tree as its branches swayed 
near me, but it has all been of no use,” and 
its head bent lower and lower. 

“Perhaps,” said the flowers to each other, 
“perhaps our Angel can be of some help. Let 
us speak to her.” 

And when evening came, and the Angel 
closed the flowers as she kissed them good¬ 
night, she heard one whisper, “Something 
makes our little friend very sad. She will 
not tell us. See if she will tell you her secret.” 
They saw the Angel stoop down and whisper 
something to the little plant and go away. 

“See how our little companion has raised 
its head this morning,” said the grasses. 

“An Angel visited her last night,” one an¬ 
swered. 

By and by a day came when the little plant 
was covered with many tiny blossoms. The 


LEGEND OF FORGET-ME-NOT 255 

other flowers rejoiced to see them. ^WeVe 
guessed your secret. What beautiful flower 
children—blue, like the sky. It makes the 
sky seem very near.” 

“That is my secret,” answered the little 
plant. “When I told it to the Angel I said, 
‘My flowers must be just the colour of the 
sky.’ And she whispered, ‘Then always look 
up, for your flowers will be like that which 
you love most.’ Then she went away.” 

The Forget-me-not was happy. She never 
drooped her head again, and the Angel al¬ 
ways kissed her good-night as she passed by. 



FOUR-LEAF CLOVERS 

Ella Higginson 

I know a place where the sun is like gold, 
And the cherry blooms burst with snow, 
And down underneath is the loveliest nook 
Where the four-leaf clovers grow. 

I know a place where the sun is like gold. 

And the cherry blooms burst with snow. 

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith. 

And one is for love, you know. 

And God put another one in for luck. 

If you search you will find where they grow. 
I know a place where the sun is like gold. 
And the cherry blooms burst with snow. 

But you must have hope, and you must have 
faith. 

You must love and be strong, and so 
If you work, if you wait, you will find the 
place 

Where the four-leaf clovers grow. 

I know a place where the sun is like gold. 
And the cherry blooms burst with snow. 

*By permission of The Macmillan Co. 

256 


JOLLY LITTLE TARS 

Agnes McClellan Daulton 


“Tur-R-R-R-T, tre-t-t,” trilled a tree-toad who 
was perched one June day, on a log at the 
water’s edge. “This is a perfect day for us 
Water-folk. Surely there never was such 
blue in the sky, such green in the grass, nor 
such dimpling cloud shadows skipping about 
everywhere. It is the very day to sit down 
and dream.” 

“We think it just the day for a race,” cried 
a whirligig beetle who was whizzing past. 
“Come on. Whirligigs! let us see who will 
win this time.” And away they went with 
a dash, flash, and spin, a long curve here, a 
quick turn there, faster and faster. 

“My, my!” said the tree-toad, half closing 
his eyes. “It seems to me every day is the 
day for a race with those Whirligigs. I never 
saw one of them meditating in my life. It 
makes me dizzy and gives me a headache to 
257 







258 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

watch them spinning. It is a wonder they 
don’t dash themselves to pieces.” 

‘‘Not they,” yawned a little snapping-turtle, 
who had been drowsing on a stone near by. 
“If you look close at a Whirligig, you will 
see that he is nearly as well protected as I am 
in my strong shell. How you exist with that 
soft body of yours is more than I can under¬ 
stand. You are a peaceable sort of fellow, 
but your best friend must admit that you are 
very ugly.” 

“No such thing,” sputtered the tree-toad, 
leaning far out to look at his reflection in the 
water. “I’m nothing of the sort. My mother 
says that I was the handsomest polliwog in the 
family. You are forced to wear one dress 
always, and that a dull old shell, while I 
change the colour of my clothes to suit the 
occasion, as all well-bred persons should. 
This morning I am wearing a full suit of 
grey-brown; that is because it matches so per¬ 
fectly this lichen-covered log upon which I 
am seated. When I go swimming, my bath¬ 
ing suit is ashen grey, with green trimmings. 


JOLLY LITTLE TARS 259 

If I were to visit the swamp maples I should 
don plain brown, and if I should take a hop 
in the grass I should wear a beautiful dress 
suit of green. I am Mr. Hyla Versicolour, 
rd have you know. See how rough and warty 
my back is; that is a sign of good family 
among toads. Watch me puff out my throat 
like a great white bubble as I whistle my tur- 
r-r-r-t, tre-t-t! Besides having a winning 
voice and power to change my colour I can 
breathe through my skin. I have a remark¬ 
able foot, also. Look at this delicate webbing, 
and these cunning little disks at the ends of 
my toes. I can climb as well as swim, Mr. 
Snapper. See me dart out my tongue; it is 
fastened in front and free at the back, so that 
I may catch a fly in a flash. 

‘‘Ugly fellow, indeed!” Mr. Hyla puffed 
out his throat as far as he could. “Fiddle¬ 
sticks!” snapped the turtle, slipping into the 
pool with a splash. “You are a worse boaster 
than a water-boatman. Talk to yourself, 
please,” and away he swam. 

“That Snapper always was a disagreeable 




26 o the emerald story book 


fellow/’ mused Hyla, with his eyes half shut. 
“There come those Whirligigs back. I won¬ 
der which one beat.” 

“Pooh, how could a Whirligig beat?” scorn¬ 
fully asked a water-strider who had over¬ 
heard the tree-toad. “They swim in circles, 
the foolish things.” 

“That’s all you know about Whirligig rac¬ 
ing,” cried the largest whirligig, who was 
swimming near. “We all win every race. 
But of course you can’t expect a common 
water-strider with only one pair of eyes to 
understand that.” 

“One pair of eyes!” exclaimed Hyla. 
“Why, have you more eyes than the rest of 
us, Mr. Whirligig?” 

“Certainly,” replied the beetle, proudly. 
“We are not given to boasting, but, since you 
ask, I will say that we Whirligigs have many 
remarkable traits. Our family name is Gy- 
rinidae.” 

“Who cares for that?” shouted the angry 
water-strider, skating toward the whirligig 
with all his might. “Get out of the road, 
you beetle, or I will skate you down! Ugh, 


26 i 


JOLLY LITTLE TARS 

what a horrid perfume you use! How dare 
you, sir!” gasped the strider, as the whirl¬ 
igig swam away, leaving the poor strider 
gasping and sputtering on the other side of 
the pool. 

“Keep your distance, then,” called the 
whirligig after him. 

“He won’t bother me for a time,” laughed 
the beetle to the tree-toad. “You see I have 
the power to give off a milky fluid from my 
joints, and common water-folk object to the 
odour, but it is my only way to get on with 
these skaters.” 

“But do you really mean,” asked the Hyla, 
“that you have more eyes than the rest of us?” 

“I certainly do,” replied the beetle with 
dignity. “We Whirligigs have a second pair 
of eyes under our chins, which enable us to 
see to the bottom of the pool as we swim about, 
and most convenient we find them.” 

“Wonderful! wonderful!” The Hyla 
could scarcely express his amazement. “I 
suppose that is the reason you never hurt 
yourselves in such rapid swimming?” 

“Not at all,” said the whirligig. “Ex- 






262 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

amine this handsome, glittering blueblack uni¬ 
form I wear. It is really a coat of mail to 
protect not only our bodies but also our gauzy 
wings, for we fly as well as swim.” 

“I shouldn’t think you could hop very 
well,” remarked the tree-toad; “your legs 
look like oars.” 

“Who wants to hop if he can swim and fly?” 
retorted the whirligig, with scorn. “I am 
sure I don’t.” 

“Come, come,” cried the other whirligigs, 
who were swimming by. “Don’t spend the 
day talking when there is racing to be done.” 

“Well, good-bye, Mr. Tree-toad. There 
comes that skater again so I will be gone,” 
and off whisked the beetle. 

“Now that was interesting,” said the Hyla 
to himself. “I really ought to know some¬ 
thing more of my neighbours. There comes 
a Water-Spider ^ for a bubble. Now I must 
ask her what she does with it. 

“Good-morning, Mistress Spider. What 
are you going to do with that silver bubble, 
may I ask?” 

* Found in England. 


JOLLY LITTLE TARS 263 

“Good-morning,” replied Mrs. Spider, as 
she snatched a bubble of air and held it with 
her hind legs. “I haven’t time to explain up 
here, Mr. Tree-Toad, but if you will call at 
my home I will be glad to tell you.” 

“I shall* be most happy,” replied the Hyla, 
slipping into the water in a jiffy, and in a 
second later he was resting on the bottom of 
the pool, just under Mrs. Water Spider’s glit¬ 
tering balloon. 

“That certainly is very beautiful, Mrs. 
Spider. Would you mind explaining how it 
is done?” said he. 

“Not at all,” said the spider, as she came 
and sat in the door of her home. “My house, 
sir, is woven of silk, just as are those of other 
spiders, but instead of a web I weave this 
egg-shaped nest with the door at the bottom. 
Now, although I live under water, I breathe 
air, and it is necessary for me to fill my house 
with it. So up to the top I go and catch a 
bubble of air with the hairs of my abdomen 
and my two hinder legs. I then bring it down 
here and hang it in my silken balloon until it 
is, as you see, a glittering, transparent bell. 


264 the emerald story book 

In the top of my nest I weave a little chamber 
in which to lay my eggs, and when my babies 
hatch out they stay in this shining home until 
they are strong enough to build a nest for 
themselves.” 

“And how many eggs, Mrs. Spider,” asked 
Hyla, politely, “do you put in the chamber?” 

“A hundred is the usual number,” replied 
Mrs. Spider, “but now you really must excuse 
me, as I am in need of more air.” 

“Goodness gracious,” mused the tree-toad, 
looking after her as she darted toward the top. 
“I should think she would feel something like 
that old woman who lived in a shoe, who had 
so many children she didn’t know what to do. 
But what have we here?” and Mr. Hyla 
leaned forward to watch a wee log hut that 
was creeping in the queerest way on a water- 
weed. 

“Ugh! What great goggle eyes you have!” 
piped a tiny voice from the door of the hut. 
“I should like to know what you are staring 
at.” 

“Well, this is surprising,” gasped the Hyla. 
“Now, who in the world are you?” 



JOLLY LITTLE TARS 265 

“I am a caddis-worm out for an airing/’ 
said the voice again, as the hut reached the 
edge of the leaf. ‘T hope you have no ob¬ 
jections.” 

‘‘Oh, no; of course not,” stammered the 
astonished Hyla. “Only I should like to 
know if all caddis-worms carry their houses 
about with them?” 

“This is my overcoat, I’d have you know,” 
said the caddis, thrusting out his little black 
head. “My brother wears one of leaves, my 
sister wears a sand jacket. But mine is the 
best fit.” 

“May I ask who is your tailor?” asked the 
tree-toad. “It is certainly a remarkable coat.” 

“I am my own tailor,” replied the worm. 
“A caddis would scorn to have his clothes 
made for him; but it is very hard work, I can 
assure you of that.” 

“Would you mind telling me about it?” 
inquired the Hyla. “Your coat is a perfect 
fit; there isn’t a wrinkle in it.” 

“Thank you,” replied the gratified caddis- 
worm. “You see/’ he went on to explain, “we 
always make our coats out of the material at 





266 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


hand. Now, when I found these stylish sticks 
I anchored myself to a stone by a bit of silk 
which I spun from my mouth, for we caddis- 
worms furnish our own thread. Then by the 
aid of the same silk I wove this handsome 
coat, bit by bit, making one section at a time, 
and then slipping my head through and wrig¬ 
gling it down into place. See, I can put out 
my head and my first three pairs of feet, and 
so creep where I will.” 

^‘Most remarkable, most remarkable,” 
drawled the toad, who didn’t believe -a word 
of it. “And did you say your sister wears a 
jacket of sand?” 

“Oh, yes, that is common enough,” answered 
the caddis. “I have heard that my grand¬ 
father, who wore an overcoat of shells, wove 
into it some tiny ones, each of which was the 
home of a little living creature, and the poor 
things had to pick up a living the best way 
they could. I have also been told that in 
captivity some of my family have made re¬ 
markable coats of gold dust and crushed glass. 
After a time I shall draw my head back into 
my overcoat and weave a silk veil, and so shut 



JOLLY LITTLE TARS 267 

myself in and go to sleep. When I wake up 
I shall no longer be a worm, but a beautiful 
four-winged fly; my gauzy wings will be deli¬ 
cately fringed and there will be slender an¬ 
tennae upon my head, and I shall float in the 
air. Is not that a beautiful future? But here 
comes a pond-snail, a most interesting fellow. 
Shall I introduce you?” 

“Most happy. I hope you are well,” said 
Mr. Hyla. 

But the snail said he wasn’t feeling very 
well, as he had eaten a water-weed that didn’t 
agree with him; still, he was very pleasant and 
answered all the tree-toad’s questions most 
kindly. 

He said the first he could remember he was 
a little baby-snail not as big as a pinhead, 
moving about with hundreds of his brothers 
in the sand. Yet even then he carried a house 
on his back, a tiny, perfect shell, into which 
he could creep when danger threatened. 

“Some people say I am very slow,” said the 
snail, “but they forget I have only one foot 
and carry my house on my back. Yet I am 
not complaining, for I have a head in which 






268 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


are my eyes, mouth, feelers, and organs of 
smell, while my relative, the oyster, having no 
head, has to wear his eyes, ears, and feelers 
on his mantle and his mouth near his hinge, 
poor fellow! Even my own cousin, the land- 
snail, has her eyes on long feelers, and has to 
draw them in if danger is near. Then see 
what a handsome cone-shaped shell I wear; 
inside there is a kind of spiral staircase, up 
which I can creep, and I can close my door 
with a thin film. If I break my shell I patch 
it with a sticky fluid that hardens and makes 
my home as good as new. I am an air- 
breathing creature and go up to the top to set 
free the bubble of impure air I have breathed 
and then bring down a bubble of fresh, sweet 
air. I have a long, ribbon-like tongue covered 
with teeth, with which I can chew the deli¬ 
cious water-weeds. Really, I consider my¬ 
self a very lucky creature.” 

^Tt must be a trifle monotonous,” thought 
the Hyla, as he swam toward the top. “I 
should want a more stirring life. I wonder 
what that is!” 

What he saw was a small object floating 



JOLLY LITTLE TARS 269 

on the top of the water like an odd little boat, 
only it seemed made of tiny jars with their 
openings toward the bottom, and out of these 
jars were darting wee brown wigglers. 

^‘Hello, little chaps! who are you?” called 
the tree-toad. 

^We don’t know, we just got out,” cried 
the wigglers, ‘Tut there is our big brother; 
ask him.” 

The brother was a curious fellow. His 
body was very slender and of a mottled green 
colour, and he had large dark eyes. He also 
wore a huge moustache, which he was always 
moving about in a curious way, for he used 
it as a hand for feeding himself. On one side 
of his tail was a queer little screw he used as 
a propeller and rudder. He was sailing about 
at a furious rate, but almost always on his 
head, with his tail stuck out of the water. 

“Allow me to ask what you are doing in 
that strange position?” inquired the Hyla in 
his mildest tones. 

“Breathing, sir, as I should think you could 
see,” repied the larva, crossly. “What other 
way should one breathe?” 





270 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

“Oh, excuse me,” said the tree-toad, as he 
slipped up to his old seat on the log. “I 
didn’t mean any offence.” 

“The fact is,” said the larva more pleas¬ 
antly, “I have to go into my pupa case to¬ 
morrow and it makes me cross. It is no fun 
simply to float about without eating. Still, 
I shall be able to move about, and that is 
more than many an insect can do as a pupa, 
and after all it is only for a few days, and 
then I shall hatch out into a beautiful mos¬ 
quito.” 

“Well, well,” said the tree-toad, “that will 
be pleasant. It seems to me I have heard of 
the mosquito. He is a musician, like myself, 
is he not?” 

“My mother was a fine singer,” replied the 
larva, proudly. “She had beautiful wings, 
two plume-like antennae, and six slender legs; 
and she always carried about with her a case 
in which there were five lancets to pierce the 
skin of men and cattle, and she had also a 
drop of poison to inject into the wound. My 
father never did anything but fly about in 
the sunshine and sip honey; my mother was 


JOLLY LITTLE TARS 271 

the talented member of the family. I think 
I will be going; there come the Giant Water- 
bugs.” 

Mrs. Giant Water-bug was swimming 
quietly along by her husband, who looked 
very sulky and cross, and did not even return 
the Hyla’s greeting. 

^‘My, my,” sighed a water-boatman who 
was swimming about on his back, “how I do 
pity Mr. Giant Water-bug! Do not take of¬ 
fence at his not speaking, Hyla; he is simply 
crushed with his trouble. You see his wife 
forces him ,to act as a sort of baby carriage. 
She fastens her eggs on his back with water¬ 
proof glue, although he struggles and struggles 
to escape her, and he has to carry them about 
with him everywhere, poor old fellow! 
Sometimes he is so nearly heartbroken he just 
hangs to a water-weed and won’t move, no 
matter who tries to get up a fight with him. 
It is hard on him, for Giant Water-bugs have 
gay times. They fly away from the pond in 
such numbers to dance about those great shin¬ 
ing balls that hang over the village that men 
have changed their names to ^electric-light’ 





272 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

bugs. But what a time I have been gossiping 
here! I think I shall go for a swim.” 

The tree-toad sat sunning himself on the 
log, but ever on the outlook for a new ac¬ 
quaintance. 

“Faugh!” exclaimed the Hyla at last, “there 
is one of those horrid things that used to 
frighten me most out f.i my wits when I was 
a timid little polliwog wriggling through the 
water. She can’t hurt me now, so I will 
speak to her. Good-morning, my friend! 
May I ask who you are, and where you are 
going?” 

“I am not quite sure either,” replied the 
queer-looking creature as it dragged itself 
painfully up a water-weed. “I was once a 
larva much feared in this pool. I fed upon 
the juiciest polliwogs and other delicacies. 
But a strange change came over me. I 
couldn’t eat, and I fell half asleep, and to-day 
I feel that I just must climb out of the water; 
I cannot tell why. I think another change is 
going to take place in me. So I can only bid 
the world good-bye. Perhaps this is death.” 
And fixing herself firmly to the weed by means 




JOLLY LITTLE TARS 273 

of two little hooks on each of her six feet she 
hung perfectly motionless. 

“Bless me,” gasped the tree-toad, after he 
had watched the creature patiently for a few 
minutes. “Her eyes are certainly growing 
brighter, and what is the matter with her 
back? A crack, as I am a tree-toad!” 

Slowly the queer thing drew herself out of 
her case. She had a soft body now, and damp, 
closely-folded wings. But the kind sunshine 
and the gentle breeze came to help, and, little 
by little, she began to unfurl her wonderful 
wings,—great filmy wings that shimmered 
with blue and green, brown and yellow, deli¬ 
cate pink and violet, and she had large eyes 
that glittered with twenty thousand facets. 

“Oh! oh!” cried the Hyla. “How beau¬ 
tiful you are, you great dragon fly!” 

But away she flew without a word, zigzag¬ 
ging back and forth across the pool; a living 
gem, emerald, sapphire, and topaz, knitting 
the flecked sunshine with loops of light. 

“Well, well,” said the tree-toad, “this is 
the most astonishing thing of all, to think 
of that ugly larva changing to that beautiful 



274 the emerald STORY BOOK 

rainbow fly! But the day is going and I 
really ought to accomplish something before 
sunset. So I think I shall take a little trip 
over to that elm and sing for rain,” and off 
he hopped, leaving the pool sparkling in the 
sunshine, dappled with cloud-shadows, cool, 
silent, and sweet with drifting lilies 



MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE 

Warren Judson Brier 

Once upon a time, many years ago, a little 
maple seed, with its two gauzy wings, became 
lodged among the feathers of a wood pigeon, 
and was by that swift flying bird carried far 
away into the pine forest. It fell to the 
ground, and the rains soon beat it into the 
earth. It was not sorry to get out of sight, 
for the Pine Family, into whose domain it 
had been carried, seemed displeased to see it 
among them. Anyway, they all looked black 
and threatening to the little seed. 

Years afterward there stood upon the spot 
where the seed had fallen, a hardy tree which 
we can make no mistake in calling Mr. Rock 
Maple. In all that part of the forest Mr. 
Maple had no relatives. As he grew stronger 
and stronger, the dislike of the Pines, partic¬ 
ularly of the Pine boys, grew likewise stronger. 
As he pushed his limbs farther in every 
direction, the Pine boys seemed to look more 

275 



276 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

darkly upon him. They begrudged him the 
very ground he stood on. The younger Pine 
boys spread out their arms to try to prevent 
Rock Maple from getting the light and mois¬ 
ture which he so much needed in that sandy 
soil. At times they showered great quan¬ 
tities of needles upon him, and at certain sea¬ 
sons of the year they pelted him unmercifully 
with their cones, sharp rough weapons that 
played havoc with Mr. Maple’s garments of 
green, yellow and red. 

Old Mr. Pine, who waved his green head 
in the air nearly a hundred and fifty feet above 
the earth, did not seem to have very good con¬ 
trol over his boys, for though he himself did 
not often deign to pelt Mr. Maple with the 
few cones he possessed, he never rebuked the 
boys for their impoliteness. 

One day the Pine boys were unusually 
rough, made so by the strong wind. They 
knew Mr. Maple was not to blame, but there 
was no one else to lay the blame on, so they 
pelted him with cones until he lost his temper. 
He was just wondering what he would do to 
prevent the annoyance, when, looking down. 



MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE 277 

he saw that some little creatures had appeared 
upon the scene, and were striking right and 
left at the Pines with a sharp tool, against 
which needles and cones were of no use what¬ 
ever. 

‘^How good of those little things to take 
my part,” said Mr. Maple to himself. 

In a very short time hundreds of the Pines 
were lying prone upon the earth. Some were 
formed into a house, while others were drawn 
away to a small stream, rolled into its sluggish 
waters, and soon disappeared forever from the 
gaze of Mr. Pine, who grieved for them, and 
of Mr. Maple, who did not. 

^^Nobody here now of any consequence,” 
exclaimed Mr. Pine with a contemptuous look 
at Mr. Maple. Mr. Maple paid no attention. 
“If you were not such a dwarf, I’d talk to 
you sometimes, even if you dov!t amount to 
much,” he finally said with an air of great 
condescension. “It makes me hoarse to talk 
down so far.” 

For a long time after that Mr. Maple kept 
silent, wondering why Mr. Pine and himself 
had been spared. 



278 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

But great surprises were in store for these 
two enemies. A family came to live in the 
log house, and among them was the smallest 
human being that the trees had ever seen,—a 
little girl named Camilla. She soon got into 
the habit of coming out and playing under the 
two large trees. 

One day her father brought home a small 
box, at sight of which she went into a transport 
of joy, screaming, “My kit, my darling kit! 
I never thought to see you again!” The box 
was soon opened, and she lifted a queer-shaped 
little instrument from it; then, taking it by its 
long neck, she drew a small wand across it, 
and it gave forth a sound that thrilled every 
fibre of both Pine and Maple through and 
through. 

It is too long a story to tell how both trees 
came to love Camilla very dearly; how de¬ 
lighted Mr. Pine was when she took some 
resin which he held out to her; how pleased 
Camilla looked, how white were her teeth, 
and how she loved him for the gift; how Mr. 
Maple had his reward when the passing frost 
touched him and gave him a beautiful gar- 




MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE 279 

ment, much to the delight of Little Camilla, 
or how when the long winter was nearly done 
the little violinist fairly hugged him for the 
sugar he had yielded her. 

A fatal day came at last. Men appeared 
with sharp axes and heavy wagons and at¬ 
tacked Mr. Maple. They had not cut into 
him very deeply before one of them exclaimed 
to the others, “Curly Maple, as I live!” 

Mr. Pine laughed, but before night he had 
met the same fate. The man who felled him 
remarked to the others, “Well on to ten thou¬ 
sand feet in that old fellow!” 

Camilla looked on while the trees were 
loaded and drawn away, tears filling her blue 
eyes. “Good-bye, old friends,” she exclaimed. 

Away to a noisy place they went. Soon 
they were cut up into small strips by a monster 
with very sharp teeth. These strips were car¬ 
ried in different directions, some of the best 
pieces being loaded upon cars and hurried 
away to a distant city. From this place they 
took a long journey in the deep, dark hold of 
a great ship; again upon the cars, until at 
last they rested in a dry house. 


28 o the emerald story book 


One day one of the Maple boards and one 
of the Pine boards were taken out, carefully 
inspected and then made smooth and even on 
the outside. Then a skilful workman cut 
them up into small pieces, and made them into 
curious shapes. He took great pains not to 
leave the scratch of knife or chisel upon any 
of the pieces. He finally glued them all to¬ 
gether, and behold, they were of the same 
shape as Camilla’s kit, but somewhat larger. 

The workman explained to an observer, “I 
use pine for the front, or sounding-board, as 
it is light and vibrant. The more porous it 
is the better. Maple is the best wood I can 
get for the other parts, because it is so dense, 
vibrates slowly, and holds the vibrations made 
by the pine for a long time, thus prolonging 
the sound.” 

After the slow process of finishing and var¬ 
nishing was completed the violin was placed 
in a dark box, and there it lay for a long time. 

Pine and Maple said little to each other. 
They were not very comfortable nor very 
happy. The strings that had been stretched 
over them were very cruel and pressed upon 




MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE 281 


the Pine, which pressed upon the soundpost, 
and that pressed upon the Maple. Sometimes 
a string broke, and gave them temporary re¬ 
lief, but soon some one would come and put 
on another. 

After passing through two or three small 
stores the violin finally came to rest in a large 
one, in a city distant from the one in which 
it had been made, and all was quiet for a 
long time. Still Pine and Maple said but 
little to each other. Shut up in their dark 
box they didn’t feel very cheerful. 

“A living death, this!” grumbled Pine. 

^We must make the best of it,” replied 
Maple. 

One evening a stranger came into the store 
and asked, ‘‘Have you a first-class violin in 
stock?” 

“Yes, just one. I got it several months ago 
by the merest chance. We don’t keep such 
instruments usually,” said the dealer, taking 
out the violin. “It is wonderful for an in¬ 
strument not ten years old.” 

“I want one for the evening, only,” said the 
stranger. “Madame Camilla is here in the 


282 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


city, and to-night plays for the Orphans’ 
Home. One of her violins is under treatment, 
and her Cremona has been broken.” 

“Madame Camilla!” exclaimed Pine, with 
a quiver of delight. 

“Can it be our little Camilla?” asked Maple 
in a trembling voice. 

In a few minutes the violin was taken from 
its case by Camilla’s own hand. She ran her 
fingers gently over the strings, looked at the 
varnish, tightened the bow and rosined it 
carefully and finally placed the violin against 
her shoulder, and drew the bow smoothly 
across the strings. 

She played an air in which the coming of 
a storm was represented, and Pine and Maple 
heard once more the sighing of the wind as 
it once had swept through their branches. 

“That’s the sound of the wind in the pine 
and maple that stood near my log cabin home 
when I was a little girl,” said the musician to 
the people standing near. 

Then for the first time both Pine and Maple 
felt certain that this was really their Camilla. 


MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE 283 

The curtain rose, the manager stepped to 
the front and in a few words explained the 
accident, and stated that a new and untried 
violin must be used. 

^‘Let us lay aside all discord, and act in 
perfect harmony to-night,” said the forgiving 
Maple. 

“I’ll do it,” answered Pine, more cheerfully 
than he had ever spoken before’ 

Pine and Maple beat and throbbed under 
the wonderful strokes and long-drawn sweeps 
of the bow. When the piece was finished a 
storm of applause burst upon them like a 
tempest. Again the curtain went up and the 
violin found itself in the glare of the foot¬ 
lights once more. This time the performer 
touched the strings gently, and played a tune 
that many people who had come to the store 
had tried to play, the words to the first line 
being, “Way down upon de Suwanee Ribber.” 

When it was finished the people were silent, 
and tears glistened in many eyes. 

“Maple, forgive me,” said the now humble 
Pine. “I’ve learned a great lesson, though a 


284 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

very simple one. The best results in life 
are accomplished through harmony and not 
through discord.” 

^We’ll live in harmony hereafter,” said 
Maple. 

The great soul of the artist had breathed 
into the instrument and made it glorious. 


A GARDEN OF EASTER STORIES 





My garden is a lovesome thing. 

Rose plot, 

Fringed grot: 

The veriest school of Peace. 

And yet the fool contends 
That God is not in gardens. 

Not in gardens—when the eve is cool? 

Nay, but I have a sign: 

’Tis very sure God walks in mine. 

Old English Verse, 




THE EASTER RABBIT 

German Legend 


Shrill and sharp North Wind whistled 
through the forest where the trees and flowers 
were patiently awaiting the arrival of My 
Lady Spring. Jack Frost was delighted. 
Perched on the topmost branches of the great 
trees he laughed gleefully. “Ha! ha! ha! 
surely Old Father Winter has forgotten that 
April is almost here,” said he. “I shall not 
remind him, not I. They say My Lady 
Spring who is waiting in Wild-Flower Hol¬ 
low is growing most impatient!” 

“And so am I,” whispered Mother Maple 
to her neighbour Dame Oak. “IVe told my 
babies many pleasant stories about My Lady 
Spring and her companion Merry Sunshine. 
Fm afraid I shall be unable to keep them in 
their dark cradles much longer.” 

“Oh! do hold them back a few days,” said 
Dame Oak. “You remember what trouble 
that rude rollicking fellow Jack-Frost made 
287 


288 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 


last year. So long as he is here he insists on 
playing with all the babies of the forest. I 
do wish Lady Spring would come and tel] 
him to be off.” 

‘‘He’ll never go so long as his bold brother 
North Wind remains,” sighed Silver Beech. 

“Never mind,” said Dame Oak. “I feel 
sure we shall not have to wait much longer. 
Indeed I saw Merry Sunshine dancing near 
the edge of the forest yesterday. I feel quite 
hopeful.” 

“Oh, how happy I shall be to hear Thrush’s 
song again,” said Silver Beech. 

“And the happy children’s voices! They 
haven’t been to the forest since nutting season,” 
said Dame Oak. “I’m sure they are longing 
to come again.” 

For some time Lady Spring had been wait¬ 
ing in Wild-Flower Hollow near the edge of 
the forest. Only a few days ago the children 
had come there to gather flowers. 

“Not a bird or blossom anywhere. See 
how brown and bare that bank is!” said one. 

“And Easter is almost here. I wonder why 
Lady Spring is so late!” said another. 


THE EASTER RABBIT 289 

^‘Maybe she has forgotten us,” said a tiny 
companion. 

“I am very disappointed. Last year at this 
time that bank was blue with violets. Come, 
let us go home!” And away ran the children. 

‘T shall wait no longer,” said Lady Spring. 
“Come, Merry Sunshine.” 

Away danced Merry Sunshine and Lady 
Spring followed in trailing robes of green and 
white. 

Waving her silver wand over the bank of 
Wild-Flower Hollow she whispered, “Ready, 
Violets; come. Starry Bluet; my sweet Ane¬ 
mone, you need wait no longer. Ah, brave 
Arbutus, I see you were expecting me. Did 
you think I was never coming, my dainty 
Spring Beauty?” 

How graceful Lady Spring looked waving 
her magic wand here and there through the 
forest. Wherever she stooped and touched 
the brown earth the fresh grass leaped forth; 
when she tapped the great tree trunks the bare 
branches above instantly veiled themselves in 
tender green. She waved at the brooklet and 
away it ran over the moss and pebbles. 


290 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

^‘Sing, Merry Sunshine, dance and sing!” 
Lady Spring called to her companion. 

Merry Sunshine trilled the gayest song. It 
rang sweetly through forest and echoed far 
away over the hills to the South where the 
birds were waiting patiently for the call. 
How gladly they camel Bluebird and Bobo¬ 
link, Cardinal and Chickadee, Blackbird and 
Thrush and Wren,—all the forest warblers an¬ 
swered Merry Sunshine’s Song of Spring. 

“At last my work is done 1 ” said Lady Spring 
joyously. 

“When are the children coming?” asked 
Dame Oak. 

“Oh, to be sure! I must not forget to send 
them word that I am here. Robin Redbreast, 
will you take a message of Spring to the chil¬ 
dren? I’m sure they will want to seje the 
lovely blossoms and hear the sweet birds’ 
songs.” 

“Lady Spring,” said Robin, “I’m afraid I 
cannot go to-day. You see my mate and I are 
building a soft warm nest in Oak-Tree. We 
are very late this year.” 


THE EASTER RABBIT 


291 

“To be sure, Robin. I wonder where I can 
find a messenger.” 

“I think Red Fox would go for you,” an¬ 
swered Robin Redbreast. “See, here he 
comes now.” 

“Will you take word to the children that 
I have come, Reynard?” asked Lady Spring. 

“Oh, I should be glad to go, but the people 
might think I came to steal their chickens. I 
believe Black Bear would be a better mes¬ 
senger than any of us. I’ll run and ask him 
to go.” 

But Reynard brought back the answer that 
Black Bear was afraid he would frighten the 
children too much. 

“What shall I do for a messenger,” sighed 
Lady Spring. 

Robin cocked his head on one side and 
looked very thoughtful. Then he said, “I 
have it, I believe Bunny Rabbit would go; I 
saw him hop past but a moment ago. I’ll call 
him.” 

At Robin’s whistle Bunny came leaping out 
of the bushes. 


292 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

‘‘Bunny Rabbit, I want you to take a mes¬ 
sage to the children in the city. Please go 
and tell them Spring has come.” 

“A message to the city, Lady Spring!” 
exclaimed Bunny, raising his ears upright. 
“Please ask me to do anything but that! Dear 
me! The dogs might catch me! They bark 
so fiercely! And naughty boys might chase 
me! I’m sure I should never come back!” 
Bunny dropped his voice and looked quickly 
about in all directions. Lady Spring was 
puzzled. 

“Bunny,” said Robin, “couldn’t you go at 
night? You know the dogs and boys go to 
sleep then and you can hop so softly that I’m 
sure they would not hear you. Besides, your 
ears are very sharp.” 

“Well, perhaps I could go at midnight,” 
said Bunny, thoughtfully. “But how could I 
take a message to the children without waken¬ 
ing them?” 

“Oh, I can manage that,” said Lady Spring. 
“Meet me in Wild-Flower Hollow a little be¬ 
fore twelve o’clock. Then you shall know all 
about my plan.” 



THE EASTER RABBIT 


293 


‘\I will come,” said Bunny. 

Lady Spring made a beautiful basket out of 
twigs and leaves and grasses. She lined it 
with the softest moss. Around the top she 
placed a garland of choicest wild flowers. 
And, when the birds knew that she was send¬ 
ing a message to the children, each one wished 
to help her. So they sent lovely little eggs 
of all colours—greenish blue, brown, white 
and spotted. How beautiful they looked ly¬ 
ing on the bed of moss wreathed with flowers. 

A little before midnight Bunny came to 
Wild-Flower Hollow. 

‘T am ready,” said Lady Spring. ‘‘See, 
Bunny, here is plenty of moss. Do be care¬ 
ful with these precious eggs. When you come 
to a house where a little child lives take out 
a bit of moss and form it into a wee nest like 
this,” said Lady Spring, weaving quickly a 
moss nest. “Then put into each one a wild 
flower and an egg,—so. Leave an egg for 
each child in the house.” 

“Yes, yes, I understand. Lady Spring,” said 
Bunny. “How pretty the nest is!” 

Off he started as gaily as could be. 







294 the emerald STORY BOOK 

On Easter morning Merry Sunshine wak¬ 
ened the children early. 

^‘See! see! I found this little moss nest on 
the door-step,” cried one of them. ^‘There is 
a wild-flower and three coloured eggs in it. 
How beautiful!” 

“An egg for each of us!” said another. “I 
wonder what it means.” 

“I know, I know,” said little brother. 
“There are Bunny tracks on the path. He 
must have brought the nest to us. Perhaps 
he came to tell us Spring is here.” 

“Of course he did!” cried the children, clap¬ 
ping their tiny hands in glee. “Bunny was 
Spring’s messenger.” 

Away to the woods ran the children, cry¬ 
ing out, “Spring is here. Spring is here. 
Bunny Rabbit brought us the message.” 


THE BOY WHO DISCOVERED THE 
SPRING^ 

Raymond MacDonald Alden 

There came once a little Elf Boy to live on 
this earth, and he was so much pleased with 
it that he stayed, never caring to go back to 
his own world. I do not know where his oWn 
world was, or just how he came to leave it. 
Some thought that he was dropped by ac¬ 
cident from some falling star, and some that 
he had flown away, thinking that he could 
fly back again whenever he chose, because he 
did not know that children always lose their 
wings when they come into this world. But 
no one knew certainly, as he never told any 
one; and, after all, it did not matter, since, 
as I have already said, he liked the earth so 
much that he did not care to leave it. 

There was a Hermit who lived in the valley 

* From “Why the Chimes Rang,” by Raymond MacDonald 
Alden. Copyright 1908. Used by special permission of The 
Bobbs-Merrill Co. 


295 



296 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

where the little Boy had first come, and, as he 
had a room in his house for a visitor, he took 
him in, and they grew to like each other so 
well that again the little Boy did not care to 
go away, nor did the Hermit care to have him. 
The Hermit had not always been a Hermit, 
but he had become a sorrowful man, and did 
not care to live where other people lived, or to 
share any of their pleasures. The reason he 
had become a sorrowful man was that his only 
child had died, and it seemed to him that there 
was nothing worth living for after that. So 
he moved to the lonely valley, and I suppose 
would have spent the rest of his life by him¬ 
self, if it had not been for the little Elf Boy. 

It was a very lovely valley, with great, green 
meadows that sloped down to a rippling brook, 
and in summer-time were full of red and white 
and yellow blossoms. Over the brook there 
hung green trees, whose roots made pleasant 
places to rest when one was tired; and along 
the water’s edge there grew blue flowers, 
while many little frogs and other live creatures 
played there. It was summer-time when the 
little Elf Boy came, and the flowers and the 


THE SPRING 


297 

trees and the brook and the frogs made him 
very happy. I think that in the world from 
which he came they did not have such things: 
it was made chiefly of gold and silver and 
precious stones, instead of things that grow and 
blossom and keep one company. So the Elf 
Boy was very happy. He did not ask to go to 
play in the village over the hill, but was quite 
content with the meadows and the brook-side. 
The only thing that did not please him was 
that the old Hermit still remained sorrowful, 
thinking always of his child who had died 
and this the Elf Boy did not understand, for 
in the world from which he came nothing ever 
died, and he thought it strange that if the 
Hermit’s child had died he did not patiently 
wait for him to come back again. 

So the summer went merrily on, and the 
Elf Boy learned to know the names of all the 
flowers in the meadow, and to love them 
dearly. He also became so well acquainted 
with the birds that they would come to him 
for crumbs, and sit on the branches close by 
to sing to him; the frogs would do the same 
thing, and although the Elf Boy did not think 


298 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

their voices as sweet as those of the birds, he 
was too polite to let them know it. 

But when September came, there began to 
be a sad change. The first thing the Elf Boy 
noticed was that the birds began to disappear 
from the meadows. When he complained of 
this, the Hermit told him they had gone to 
make their visit to the Southland, and would 
come back again; and this he easily believed. 
But as time went on, and the air became more 
and more still as the last of them took their 
flight, he began to lose heart. 

What was worse, at the same time the flow¬ 
ers began to disappear from the meadows. 
They were dead, the Hermit said, and in this 
way the Elf Boy learned what that meant. At 
first others came to take their places, and he 
tried to learn to like the flowers of autumn as 
well as those which he had known first. But 
as these faded and dropped off, none came 
after them. The mornings grew colder, and 
the leaves on the trees were changing in a 
strange way. When they grew red and yel¬ 
low, instead of green, the Elf Boy thought it 
was a queer thing for them to put on different 


THE SPRING 


299 


colouis, and wondered how long it would last. 
But when they began to fall, he was very sad 
^ndeed. At last there came a day when every 
limb was bare, except for a few dried leaves 
at the top of one of the tallest trees. The Elf 
Boy was almost broken-hearted. 

One morning he went out early to see what 
new and dreadful thing had happened in the 
night, for it seemed now that every night took 
something beautiful out of the world. He 
made his way toward the brook, but when he 
reached the place where he usually heard it 
calling to him as it ran merrily over the stones, 
he could not hear a sound. He stopped and 
listened, but everything was wonderfully still. 
Then he ran as fast as his feet would carry him 
to the border of the brook. Sure enough, it 
had stopped running. It was covered with a 
hard sheet of ice. 

The Elf Boy turned and went to the Her¬ 
mit’s house. By the time he had reached it, 
the tears were running down his cheeks. 

“Why, what is the matter?” asked the Her¬ 
mit. 

“The brook is dead,” said the Elf Boy. 



300 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

think not,” said the Hermit. “It is 
frozen over, but that will not hurt it. Be 
patient, and it will sing to you again.” 

“No,” said the Elf Boy. “You told me that 
the birds would come back, and they have not 
come. You told me that the trees were not 
dead, but their leaves have every one gone, 
and I am sure they are. You told me that the 
flowers had seeds that did not die, but would 
make other flowers but I can not find them, 
and the meadow is bare and dark. Even the 
grass is not green any more. It is a dead 
world. In the summer-time I did not see how 
you could be sorrowful; but now I do not see 
how any one can be happy.” 

The Hermit thought it would be of no use 
to try to explain anything more to the Elf 
Boy, so he said again, “Be patient,” and tried 
to find some books in which he could teach the 
Boy to read, and make him forget the outside 
world. 

The next time they went for a walk to the 
village over the hill, the Elf Boy was very 
curious to see whether the same thing had 
happened there that had happened in their 


THE SPRING 


301 

valley. Of course it had: the trees there 
seemed dead, too, and the flowers were all 
^one from the door-yards. . The Boy expected 
that every one in the village would now be as 
sorrowful as the Hermit, and he was very 
much surprised when he saw them looking 
as cheerful as ever. There were some boys 
playing on the street-corner, who seemed to 
be as happy as boys could be. One of them 
spoke to the Elf Boy, and he answered: 

“How can you play so happily, when such 
a dreadful thing has happened to the world?’’ 

“Why, what has happened?” 

“The flowers and trees are dead,” said the 
Elf Boy, “ the birds are gone, and the brook 
is frozen, and the meadow is bare and grey. 
And it is so on this side of the hill also.” 

Then the boys in the street laughed merrily, 
and did not answer the Elf Boy, for they re¬ 
membered that he was a stranger in the world, 
and supposed he would not understand if they 
should try to talk to him. And he went on 
through the village, not daring to speak to any 
others, but all the time wondering that the 
people could still be so happy. 


302 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

As the winter came on, the Hermit taught 
him many things from the books in his house, 
and the Elf Boy grew interested in them and 
was not always sad. When the snow came he 
found ways to play in it, and even saw that 
the meadow was beautiful again, though in a 
different way from what it had been in sum¬ 
mer. Yet still he could not think the world 
by any means so pleasant a place as it had been 
in the time of flowers and birds; and if it were 
not that he had become very fond of the Her¬ 
mit, who was now the only friend he could 
remember, he would have wished to go back 
to the world from which he had come. It 
seemed to him now that the Hermit must miss 
him very much if he should go away, since 
they two were the only people who seemed 
really to understand how sorrowful a place the 
earth is. 

So the weeks went by. One day in March, 
as he and the Hermit sat at their books, drops 
of water began to fall from the eaves of the 
roof, and they saw that the snow was melting 
in the sunshine. 

“Do you want to take a little walk down to- 


THE SPRING 


303 

ward the brook?” asked the Hermit. “I 
should not wonder if I could prove to you 
to-day that it has not forgotten how to talk to 
you.” 

“Yes,” said the Elf Boy, though he did not 
think the Hermit could be right. It was 
months since he had cared to visit the brook, 
it made him so sad to find it still and cold. 

When they reached the foot of the hillside 
the sheet of ice was still there, as he had ex¬ 
pected. 

“Never mind,” said the Hermit. “Come 
out on the ice with me, and put down your ear 
and listen.” 

So the Elf Boy put down his ear and 
listened; and he heard, as plainly as though 
there were no ice between, the voice of the 
brook gurgling in the bottom of its bed. He 
clapped his hands for joy. 

“It is waking up, you see,” said the Hermit. 
“Other things will waken too, if you will be 
patient.” 

The Elf Boy did not know quite what to 
think, but he waited day after day with his 
eyes and ears wide open to see if anything else 




304 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

might happen; and wonderful things did hap¬ 
pen all the time. The brook sang more and 
more distinctly, and at last broke through its 
cold coverlet and went dancing along in full 
sight. One morning, while the snow was still 
around the house, the Elf Boy heard a chirp¬ 
ing sound, and looking from his window, saw 
a red robin outside asking for his breakfast. 

^‘Why,” cried the Boy, “have you really 
come back agin?” 

“Certainly,” said the robin, “don’t you know 
it is almost spring?” 

But the Elf Boy did not understand what 
he said. 

There was a pussy-willow growing by the 
brook, and the Boy’s neit discovery was that 
hundreds of little grey buds were coming out. 
He watched them grow bigger from day to 
day, and while he was doing this the snow was 
melting away in great patches where the sun 
shone warmest on the meadow, and the blades 
of grass that came up into the daylight were 
greener than anything the Elf Boy had ever 
seen. 

Then the pink buds came on the maple 


THE SPRING 


305 

trees, and unfolded day by day. And the fruit 
trees in the Hermit’s orchard were as white 
with blossoms as they had lately been with 
snow. 

“Not a single tree is dead,” said the Elf 
Boy. 

Last of all came the wild flowers—blue and 
white violets near the brook, dandelions 
around the house, and a little later, yellow 
buttercups all over the meadow. Slowly but 
steadily the world was made over, until it 
glowed with white and green and gold. 

The Elf Boy was wild with joy. One by 
one his old friends came back, and he could 
not bear to stay in the house for many minutes 
from morning to night. Now he knew what 
the wise Hermit had meant by saying, “Be 
patient,” and he began to wonder again that 
the Hermit could be sorrowful in so beautiful 
a world. 

One morning the church bells in the village 
—whose ringing was the only sound that ever 
came from the village over the hill—rang so 
much longer and more joyfully than usual, that 
the Elf Boy asked the Hermit why they did 


rr 


306 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

so. The Hermit looked in one of his books, 
and answered: 

“It is Easter Day. The village people cele¬ 
brate it on one Sunday every spring.” 

“May we not go also?” asked the Elf Boy, 
and as it was the first time he had ever asked 
to go to the village, the Hermit could not 
refuse to take him. 

The village was glowing with flowers. 
There were many fruit trees, and they, too, 
were in bloom. Every one who passed along 
the street seemed either to wear flowers or to 
carry them in his hand. The people were all 
entering the churchyard; and here the graves, 
which had looked so grey and cold when the 
Hermit and the Boy had last seen them, were 
beautiful with flowers that the village people 
had planted or had strewn over them for 
Easter. 

The people all passed into the church. But 
the Hermit and the Elf Boy, who never went 
where there was a crowd, stayed outside where 
the humming-birds and bees were flying 
happily among the flowers. Suddenly there 
came from the church a burst of music. To 


THE SPRING 


307 

the Elf Boy it seemed the most beautiful sound 
he had ever heard. He put his finger on his 
lip to show the Hermit that he wanted to 
listen. These were the words they sang: 

am He that liveth, and was dead; and, 
behold, I am alive for evermoreT^ 

The Boy took hold of the Hermit’s hand and 
led him to the church door, that they might 
hear still better. He was very happy. 

‘‘Oh,” he cried, “I do not believe that any¬ 
thing ever really dies.” 

The Hermit looked down at him and 
smiled. 

“Perhaps not,” he said. 

When the music began again, a strange thing 
happened. The Hermit sang the Easter song 
with the others. It was the first time he had 
sung for many years. 

All silently, and soft as sleep, 

The snow fell, flake on flake. 

Slumber, spent Earth, and dream of flowers. 
Till springtime bids you wake. 

Again the deadened bough shall bend 
With blooms of sweetest breath. 

Oh, miracle of miracles. 

This life that follows death! 





SHEEP AND LAMBS 

Katharine Tynan 

All in the April morning 
April airs were abroad, 

The sheep with their little lambs, 
Passed me by on the road. 

The sheep with their little lambs 
Passed me by on the road; 

All in an April evening 

I thought on the Lamb of God. 

The lambs were weary, and crying 
With a weak human cry, 

I thought on the Lamb of God 
Going meekly to die. 

Up in the blue, blue mountains 
Dewy pastures are sweet; 

Rest for the little bodies. 

Rest for the little feet. 

All in the April evening 
April airs were abroad; 

I saw the sheep with their lambs, 

And thought on the Lamb of God. 

308 





ROBIN REDBREAST—A CHRIST 
LEGEND * 

Selma Lagerlof 


It happened one day when our Lord sat in 
His Paradise creating and painting little birds 
that He conceived the idea of making a little 
grey bird. 

“Remember your name is Robin Red¬ 
breast,” said our Lord to the bird, as soon as 
it was finished. Then He held it in the palm 
of His open hand and let it fly. 

After the bird had been testing his wings 
a while, and had seen something of the beau¬ 
tiful world in which he was destined to live, 
he became curious to see what he himself was 
like. He noticed that he was entirely grey, 
and that his breast was just as grey as all the 
rest of him. Robin Redbreast twisted and 
turned in all directions as he viewed himself 
in the mirror of a clear lake, but he couldn’t 

* Reprinted by permission. Copyright 1908, by Henry Holt & 
Co. 


309 


310 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

find a single red feather. Then he flew back 
to our Lord. 

Our Lord sat there on His throne, big and 
gentle. Out of His hands came butterflies 
that fluttered about His head; doves cooed on 
His shoulders; and out of the earth beneath 
Him grew the rose, the lily, and the daisy. 

The little bird’s heart beat heavily with 
fright, but with easy curves he flew nearer and 
nearer our Lord, till at last he rested on our 
Lord’s hand. Then our Lord asked what the 
little bird wanted. only wish to ask you 
about one thing,” said the little bird. “What 
is it you wish to know?” said our Lord. 
“Why should I be called Redbreast, when 
I am all grey from the bill to the very end of 
my tail? Why am I called Redbreast when 
I do not possess one single red feather?” The 
bird looked beseechingly on our Lord with 
his tiny black eyes—then turned his head. 
About him he saw pheasants all red under a 
sprinkle of gold dust, parrots with marvellous 
red neckbands, cocks with red combs, to say 
nothing about the butterflies, the goldfinches, 
and the roses! And naturally he thought how 



ROBIN REDBREAST 


311 

little he needed—just one tiny drop of colour 
on his breast and he, too, would be a beautiful 
bird, and his name would fit him. “Why 
should I be called Redbreast when I am so 
entirely grey?” asked the bird once again, and 
waited for our Lord to say: “Ah, my friend, 
I see that I have forgotten to paint your breast 
feathers red, but wait a moment and it shall 
be done.” 

But our Lord only smiled a little and said: 
“I have called you Robin Redbreast, and 
Robin Redbreast shall your name be, but you 
must look to it that you yourself earn your red 
breast feathers.” Then our Lord lifted His 
hand and let the bird fly once more—out into 
the world. 

The bird flew down into Paradise, medi¬ 
tating deeply. 

What could a little bird like him do to earn 
for himself red feathers? The only thing he 
could think of was to make his nest in a brier 
bush. He built it in among the thorns in the 
close thicket. It looked as if he waited for a 
rose leaf to cling to his throat and give him 
colour. 


312 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

After many years there dawned a new day, 
one that will long be remembered in the 
world’s history. On the morning of this day 
Robin Redbreast sat upon a little naked hill¬ 
ock outside of Jerusalem’s walls, and sang to 
his young ones, who rested in a tiny nest in a 
brier bush. 

Robin Redbreast told the little ones all 
about that wonderful day of creation, and how 
the Lord had given names to everything, just 
as each Redbreast had told it ever since the 
first Redbreast had heard God’s word, and 
gone out of God’s hand. ^‘And mark you,” 
he ended sorrowfully, “so many years have 
gone, so many roses have bloomed, so many 
little birds have come out of their eggs since 
Creation Day, but Robin Redbreast is still 
a little grey bird. He has not yet succeeded 
in gaining his red feathers.” 

The little young ones opened wide their tiny 
bills, and asked if their forebears had never 
tried to do any great thing to earn the price¬ 
less red colour. 

“We have all done what we could,” said the 




ROBIN REDBREAST 


313 

little bird, ‘^but we have all gone amiss. Even 
the first Robin Redbreast met one day another 
bird exactly like himself, and he began imme¬ 
diately to love it with such a mighty love that 
he could feel his breast turn. ^Ah!’ he thought 
then, ‘now I understand! It was our Lord’s 
meaning that I should love with so much 
ardour that my breast should grow red in 
colour from the very warmth of the love that 
lives in my heart.’ But he missed it, as all 
those who came after him have missed it, and 
as even you shall miss it.” 

The little young ones twittered, utterly be¬ 
wildered, and already began to mourn because 
the red colour would not come to beautify 
their little, downy grey breasts. 

“We had also hoped that song would help 
us,” said the grown-up bird, speaking in long- 
drawn-out tones—“the first Robin Redbreast 
sang until his heart swelled within him, he 
was so carried away, and he dared to hope 
anew. ‘Ahl’ he thought, ‘it is the glow of the 
song which lives in my soul that will colour 
my breast feathers red.’ But he missed it, as 






314 the emerald STORY BOOK 

all the others have missed it and as even you 
shall miss it.” Again was heard a sad “peep” 
from the young ones’ half-naked throats. 

“We had also counted on our courage and 
our valour,” said the bird. “The first Robin 
Redbreast fought bravely with other birds, 
until his breast flamed with the pride of con¬ 
quest. ^Ah!’ he thought, ^my breast feathers 
shall become red from the love of battle which 
burns in my heart.’ He, too, missed it, as all 
those who came after him have missed it, and 
as even you shall miss it.” The little young 
ones peeped courageously that they still 
wished to try and win the much-sought-for 
prize, but the bird answered them sorrow¬ 
fully that it would be impossible. What 
could they do when all other robins had missed 
the mark? What could they do more than 
love, sing, and fight? What could—the little 
bird stopped short, for out of one of the gates 
of Jerusalem came a crowd of people march¬ 
ing, and the whole procession rushed toward 
the hillock, where the bird had its nest. 
There were riders on proud horses, soldiers 
with long spears, executioners with nails and 



ROBIN REDBREAST 


315 

hammers. There were judges and priests in 
the procession, weeping women, and above all 
a mob of mad, loose people running about— 
a filthy, howling mob of loiterers. 

The little grey bird sat trembling on the 
edge of his nest. He feared each instant that 
the little brier bush would be trampled down 
and his young ones killed! 

^‘Be careful!” he cried to the little defence¬ 
less young ones. ‘‘Creep together and remain 
quiet. Here comes a horse that will ride right 
over us! Here comes a warrior with iron- 
shod sandals! Here comes the whole wild, 
storming mob!” Immediately the bird ceased 
his cry of warning and grew calm and quiet. 
He almost forgot the danger hovering over 
him. Finally he hopped down into the nest 
and spread his wings over the young ones. 

“Oh! this is too terrible,” said he. “I don’t 
wish you to witness this awful sight! There 
are three miscreants who are going to be cruci¬ 
fied!” And he spread his wings so that the 
little ones could see nothing. 

Robin Redbreast followed the whole spec¬ 
tacle with his eyes, which grew big with terror. 



3 i6 the emerald STORY BOOK 

He could not take his glance from the three 
unfortunates. 

‘‘How terrible!” said the bird after a little 
while. “They have placed a crown of pierc¬ 
ing thorns upon the head of one of them. I 
see that the thorns have wounded his brow so 
that the blood flows,” he continued. “And 
this man is so beautiful, and looks about him 
with such mild glances that every one ought to 
love him. I feel as if an arrow were shooting 
through my heart, when I see him suffer!” 

The little bird began to feel a stronger and 
stronger pity for the thorn-crowned sufferer. 
“Oh! if I were only my brother the eagle,” 
thought he, “I would draw the nails from his 
hands, and with my strong claws I would 
drive away all those who harm him!” He 
saw how the blood trickled down from the 
brow of the Crucified One, and he could no 
longer remain quiet in his nest. “Even if I 
am little and weak, I can still do something for 
this poor suffering one,” thought the bird. 
Then he left his nest and flew out into the 
air, striking wide circles around the Crucified 
One. He flew around him several times with- 




ROBIN REDBREAST 


317 


out daring to approach, for he was a shy little 
bird, who had never dared to go near a human 
being. But little by little he gained courage, 
flew close to him, and drew with his little bill 
a thorn that had become imbedded in the brow 
of the Crucified One. And as he did this there 
fell on his breast a drop of blood from the face 
of the Crucified One;—it spread quickly and 
floated out and coloured all the little fine 
breast feathers. 

Then the Crucified One opened his lips and 
whispered to the bird: “Because of thy com¬ 
passion, thou hast won all that thy kind have 
been striving after, ever since the world was 
created.” 

As soon as the bird had returned to his 
nest his young ones cried to him: “Thy 
breast is red! Thy breast feathers are redder 
than the roses!” 

And even unto this day the blood-red colour 
shines on every Robin Redbreast’s throat and 
breast. 


THE MAPLE SEED 


On the topmost twig of a maple tree there 
grew a seed. In the springtime the gentle 
movement of the sap and the soft rustle of the 
leaves whispering among themselves had 
awakened him; then, day by day, half sleeping 
and half conscious, he had fed upon what the 
roots provided, stretching himself lazily in the 
sunshine. Presently his wing began to un¬ 
fold. 

‘‘That is very curious,” said he, stirring a 
little. “It must be a mistake. I don’t flutter 
about like the bees.” That bit of wing, which 
seemed his and not his, puzzled him. “It 
must belong to something else,” he thought. 
And afterward he was always on the lookout 
for a bee or a dragon fly with only one wing. 
But none came. 

The hot summer noons and the long moonlit 
nights became sultrier and the leaves dropped. 
“How withered I am!” said the seed to his 
318 



THE MAPLE SEED 


319 


most intimate friend, a leaf that hung from a 
near bough. ‘Tt makes me feel quite brittle.” 
But the leaf did not answer, for just then it 
fell from the twig with a queer, reluctant 
shiver to the ground. 

“Ah!” murmured the maple seed, “I un¬ 
derstand.” So he was not surprised when a 
rude breeze twisted him off one day, and sent 
him spinning into space. 

“Here I go,” thought he, “and this is the 
end of it.” 

“Puff!” said the breeze, who had seen much 
of the world, and looked with contempt upon 
the untravelled. “Puff! how ignorant!” and 
he blew the seed right into a crack in the earth. 

“It must be the end, for all that,” insisted 
the seed. No wonder he thought so, for it 
was cold and dark where he lay. A troubled 
cloud leaned down and wept over him. Then 
he began to grow amazingly in the warmth 
and moisture. 

“If this goes on,” he thought, “I shall cer¬ 
tainly burst, and then I must die. How is one 
to live, with a crack in his sides?” 

But the maple seed was wrong. He did 






320 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

not die. An unsuspected, mysterious strength 
sustained him. His roots found food in the 
brown earth, and he lifted up a slender stem 
into the pure sunlight and warm air. 
Through spring, summer, autumn and winter, 
year after year, this lived and grew, until the 
tiny sapling had become a beautiful tree, with 
spreading branches. 

‘^Ah!’^ said the tree, “how stupid I was.” 

It was very pleasant on the lawn. An old 
couple from the house near by came out in 
good weather to sit under the tree. They 
reminded him of some fragile leaves he had 
seen fluttering somewhere in the past. He 
was glad to have them come, and he kept his 
coolest shade for them. Partly for their sakes, 
he liked to have the robins sing in his branches. 

The years went by. The old man tottered 
out alone to sit in the cool shadow. He was 
bent and sorrowful. 

“Ah!” sighed the tree, “I know! I know! 
He has lost his leaf, and feels brittle. If I 
could only tell him this is not the end!” 

After this, many sunny days came, but not 
the old man, and the tree concluded that he 



THE MAPLE SEED 


321 

had been blown away. ‘Tf he only knew that 
he would grow again!” he said to himself. 
“Unless one knows that, it is so uncomfortable 
to lie in the dark.” 

A great storm came. The sky blackened, 
the winds blew with might, and the heavy rain 
fell. The maple was uprooted and broken. 
The next day there came men with axes who 
cut the tree in pieces, and drew it to the house. 

“Is this the end?” he questioned. But no, 
—the logs were piled one day in the fire¬ 
place in a large, sunny room. The old man 
leaned from his chair to warm his hands by the 
cheerful heat the crimson flame gave out. “Is 
it the maple?” he said. “Ah! this goes with 
the rest.” 

The fire grew brighter, burned duller, 
turned to embers, smouldered to ashes. The 
hearth was cold. The figure was sitting still 
in the armchair, but the old man himself had 
gone away. 

The spirit of the maple whispered, “Does 
he know? There is no end.” 





WHY THE IVY IS ALWAYS 
GREEN * 

Madge Bingham 


There were once two small plants that grew 
on the edge of a rough, red ditch. One of 
them was an ivy plant and the other a tiny 
fig tree. 

It was early in the morning when they first 
awoke and looked around to see how they liked 
the world. 

‘T think it is an ugly old world,” said the 
young fig tree. “I see only a rough, red ditch 
with dirty water flowing below.” 

^^Oh, it is a beautiful world,” replied the ivy 
vine. “I see clouds floating on high, and 
sunshine, and such lovely trees and flowers 
growing over on the other side of the ditch! 
Let us try to make this side beautiful, too. 

‘T will cover the rough, red places with 
pretty, green leaves, and you can decorate 


By special permission. Copyright 1910, Little, Brown Co. 
322 



WHY THE IVY IS GREEN 323 

with your wonderful pink blossoms. Come, 
let us try.” 

“No,” said the small fig tree, “I would not 
waste my time trying to make this ugly old 
place beautiful. 

“Now if, like my mother, I could have 
grown in the soft, rich earth of the garden, I 
would have tried to do something, but here 
there is no use.” 

So, from day to day, the little fig tree 
grumbled. Nothing pleased her. If the sun 
shone she said it was too hot; if the rain fell 
she said it was too wet; and if the wind blew 
she said it was too cold. 

But with the little ivy vine it was very dif¬ 
ferent, and she was as happy as a lark from 
early morning until night. 

“Whether the sun shines or whether the 
rains fall, it is God’s will,” said the little 
vine, “and I am well pleased. I shall do all 
I can to make my side of this ditch beautiful, 
and I shall begin to-day.” 

And so she did. Though she lived only on 
the edge of the red ditch, she spread out her 
leaves day by day, running here and there and 





324 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

yonder, hiding this red spot and that red spot, 
until by and by nothing could be seen but the 
beautiful green leaves of the ivy, and she did 
not stop until every ugly spot was hidden by 
her graceful garlands. 

‘‘Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful, now,” cried 
the ivy; “only look!” 

“Yes,” said the fig tree, crossly, “but no one 
sees it. What are you going to do now? 
Dry up, I suppose, since you can never cross 
the ditch.” 

“Oh, but I shall cross the ditch,” said the ivy 
vine. “I shall keep on trying until I do. 
There is so much on the other side I can do 
to help make the earth-world beautiful. 
Surely there is a way to cross.” 

So she ran out little tendrils, reaching here 
and there, searching everywhere for a way to 
cross the ditch. And at last, by climbing 
down to the edge of the muddy water, she 
reached a rock half way across, where she 
stopped for a moment to rest and wonder what 
next to do. 

“You’ll never get across,” laughed the fig 
tree. “I told you sol You might as well 


WHY THE IVY IS GREEN 325 

make up your mind to dry up and stop try¬ 
ing.” 

shall never stop trying,” called back the 
ivy vine. “There is a way to cross all ditches, 
and I shall cross this one. Wait and see.” 

“Bravo, my pretty one!” said the voice of 
the old oak tree close by. “Cling to my roots 
there. I am old and worn, but it is a joy to 
help one like you; reach out and I will pull 
you up.” 

So with one huge stretch the ivy vine clung 
tightly to the twisted roots of the old oak, 
and was soon laughing merrily on the other 
side. 

“Dear me, but you are a brave little vine,” 
said the old oak. “I have been watching you 
across the ditch all these months, and you have 
changed its ugly, red banks into a real thing 
of beauty. 

“Now there was a time, once, when flowers 
and grasses grew there, and ferns fringed the 
edge of the brook, and it was beautiful, indeed. 
Every fall I shook armfuls of crimson and 
yellow leaves upon the bank, but that was long 
ago, before the great forest fire which robbed 




326 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

me of my limbs and leaves and left me old and 
worn. 

‘What a joy it would be to me if only I 
might have my branches decked in leaves one 
more time,—especially do I long for this in 
the glad springtime, when trees and flowers 
are robing themselves for the joyous Easter 
Day. 

“Sad, indeed, it is to me, to know that I 
shall be clothed no more in a fresh dress of 
delicate green, like your own pretty leaves, 
dear Ivy.” 

“But you shall,” said the ivy vine, clapping 
her hands; “you have helped me cross the 
ditch to-day, and I mean to give you an Easter 
dress. Watch me.” 

Now vines had never climbed high before 
this. They had only run along the ground 
and down the hill, and over walls, but this 
little ivy vine wrapped her delicate arms 
around the rough bark of the old oak, and be¬ 
gan to climb her first tree. 

She pulled and stretched, and stretched and 
pulled, until little by little, up, up, higher and 


WHY THE IVY IS GREEN 327 

higher she went, leaving a trail of rich, green 
leaves behind her. It was a lovely sight. 

^‘See!” she called to the old oak; “I am 
bringing you a most beautiful Easter dress,— 
how do you like it?” 

“Beautiful, beautiful!” laughed the old oak. 
“You make me feel young again. But what 
will you do when you reach my branches?” 

“Why, I shall keep on climbing,” replied 
the ivy vine. “When I give a dress at all, it 
must be a whole dress, don’t you know? I 
shall not stop until I have covered every 
branch, as I did the bare spots on the ditch.” 

And so she did. Every day she climbed a 
little higher, until by and by every limb on the 
great, old oak was completely hidden by the 
beautiful leaves of the ivy. The old oak 
laughed in delight, as she looked on her beau¬ 
tiful Easter dress of fresh, rich green. 

Now the queen of the fairies who, I told 
you, was always on the watch for beautiful 
deeds, stood under the old oak on Easter Day 
and wondered at the beautiful sight. It made 
her glad to see the joy of the old oak in her 







328 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

new dress, and of course she knew who had 
given it. 

So, turning with a smile to the ivy vine, she 
said, “Because you have tried to make others 
happy and to make the earth beautiful your 
leaves shall never fade. Forever and forever 
they shall stay beautiful and green. Cold 
shall not hurt them nor summer’s heat destroy 
them, and wherever you go you shall gladden 
the hearts of men with your freshness and 
beauty.” 

Very happy, indeed, did these words make 
the pretty ivy vine, and ever since she has 
been climbing over the earth-world, hunting 
bare places to make more beautiful. 

Stone walls and churches and houses,—no 
place seems too high for her to climb, and 
never does she weary in making fresh Easter 
dresses for the trees that are old and worn and 
cannot make them for themselves. 



JONQUILS 

Margaret Deland 

Blow golden trumpets, sweet and clear, 

Blow soft upon the perfumed air: 

Bid the sad earth to join your song, 

‘^To Christ does victory belong!” 

Oh, let the winds your message bear 
To every heart of grief and care: 

Sound through the world the joyful lay, 
^‘Our Christ has conquered Death to-day.” 

On cloudy wings let glad words fly 
Through the soft blue of echoing sky: 

Ring out,—O trumpets, sweet and clear, 
“Through Death, immortal Life is here!” 


329 



WHEN THOU COMEST INTO 
THY KINGDOM 

Mary Stewart 

Many years ago, in a rocky cave half v^ay up 
a steep mountain, there lived a band of rob¬ 
bers. From the mouth of their cave they 
could look far out over the villages of white 
houses which dotted the green valley below 
to the blue waters of the sea beyond, and be¬ 
tween the villages and the sea there ran a 
straight white road. It was there that the 
robbers waylaid travellers, robbing them of 
money, bales of rich stuff or jewels, until the 
band became a terror to the neighbourhood 
and the very name of Tibeous, their leader, 
was whispered fearfully among travellers. 

One clear bright morning Tibeous climbed 
down the mountain path alone and mingled, 
unrecognised, among the villagers. He was 
young and strong and did not look very dif¬ 
ferently from the fishermen who, returning 
330 




WHEN THOU COMEST 331 

from a night’s work, were carrying their nets 
of shining fish across the beach and through 
the narrow streets. Only the eyes of Tibeous 
were as keen and suspicious as those of a wild 
animal, and often his hand went to his belt 
where beneath his cloak of skins he carried, 
for protection this time, a sharp dagger. 

Through the streets he walked down to the 
seashore. There had been heavy rains dur¬ 
ing the night, and in the morning sunshine 
the tall beach grass sparkled as if hung with 
diamonds, the sky was blue and cloudless, and 
the dancing waves broke merrily upon the glit¬ 
tering beach. Watching the peaceful scene 
Tibeous forgot for a moment the errand which 
had drawn him from his safe retreat. By 
listening, unnoticed, to the talk of the village, 
he had hoped to learn whether any rich mer¬ 
chants were expected, so that he and his men 
could be ready to waylay them upon the road. 
But as he stood upon the beach watching the 
barefooted boys play in the waves, a picture of 
his own boyhood rose in his mind. He, too, 
had lived beside the sea and had helped his 
fisherman father draw in nets and carry 


332 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

strings of silvery fish. How happy he had 
been, he thought, and now for the last five 
years the sun seemed to have ceased shining in 
his life. His parents had died, and not con¬ 
tent with the small, though honest, living he 
made at the fishing, he had fallen in with the 
band of robbers. They soon made him their 
leader and although younger than any of 
them, he was a very good one, for he did not 
know what fear was, was ready for any wild 
adventure and cared so little for the treasure 
he risked his life to steal that he divided it up 
among his followers. 

But that golden morning Tibeous had for¬ 
gotten all this, and as he gazed at a woman 
walking toward him with a boy clinging to one 
hand and a baby nestled against her shoulder, 
he thought only of his own boyhood, and of the 
mother who had loved and guarded him. So 
intently was he watching the woman that he 
did not notice a crowd which was collecting 
behind him until, warned by a sudden murmur 
of many voices, he turned sharply, his dagger 
half drawn. But the men and women had not 
noticed him, they were all clustering around 



WHEN THOU COMEST 333 

a white-robed man, and as Tibeous turned 
their murmurs died away and they stood mo¬ 
tionless, eagerly listening to the voice of the 
figure in their midst. Tibeous could not see 
his face, could not at first catch his words, but 
the tones of the speaker’s voice reached him, 
and like the ripples of the waves and the glim¬ 
mer of the sunshine they reminded him afresh 
of his own joyous boyhood. 

He saw the little boy’s hand tighten in his 
mother’s clasp as he urged her forward, and 
Tibeous was not surprised; that thrilling voice 
seemed to draw all toward it and he, too, fol¬ 
lowed the lad. And then, as they reached the 
outskirts of the crowd, the men drew back, 
making a pathway up to the Master, who, 
Tibeous now saw, was already surrounded 
with children. The boys and girls were look¬ 
ing up at him admiringly and even the baby in 
its mother’s arms held out its arms, as though 
to one to whom it belonged. 

Again the Master was speaking, and as 
Tibeous gazed, half startled at that beautiful 
face, he heard the words: 

‘Werily, I say unto you, whosoever shall not 


334 the emerald STORY BOOK 

receive the kingdom of God as a little child 
shall in no wise enter therein.” 

‘‘The kingdom of God,” thought Tibeous 
with a shudder, how far that was from the 
kingdom of robbers over which he ruled on 
the wild mountain side. And as far asunder 
as those two kingdoms was he, an outlaw and a 
thief, from the gracious white-robed man 
whose words stirred every heart upon that 
shining beach. 

From that day Tibeous surprised even his 
own rough followers by his recklessness. He 
risked capture and death over and over again, 
attacking travellers in the daytime as well as 
under cover of the night, robbing not only 
merchants, but priests and wealthy Pharisees, 
men whose power was so great that if the 
band was caught, one word would suffice to 
hang them all to the nearest trees. But in¬ 
stead of being captured they only made them¬ 
selves hated and feared more than ever. At 
length a proclamation went forth promising a 
large reward to any man who could bring 
Tibeous a prisoner to Jerusalem. As a warn- 


WHEN THOU COMEST 335 

ing to all robbers the thief, if captured, would 
be crucified outside the city walls. 

None knew that since that one glorious 
morning upon the beach, the pain in the heart 
of Tibeous had been well-nigh unbearable. 

“Such gentle scenes have no place in my 
wild life,” he would,cry bitterly to himself, 
and with the hope of forgetting the picture of 
the lad in the Master’s arms he dashed wildly 
into every dangerous adventure. 

One morning the robber band, looking out 
from the cave, saw a multitude of people 
journeying toward the mountain, which sloped 
down to the far end of the blue sea. Some 
came by boat, others rode, while many, who 
seemed to be quite poor people, walked. 

What could draw them to that out of the 
way spot, the robbers wondered, and only 
Tibeous suspected the truth. They had prob¬ 
ably travelled so far to meet again the Master 
whom he had seen upon the beach. He did 
not tell the others of his surmise, but when 
they planned to ride around the landward side 
of the mountain and rob these people as 


336 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

they journeyed home, he refused to go with 
them. 

“In any dangerous attack,” he said, “I am 
always ready to lead you, but as to robbing 
poor men and women and children” ... he 
turned away disgusted, w hile again there rose 
before him the picture o:^ the mother upon the 
beach, bringing her children to that marvel¬ 
lous man who talked about the kingdom of 
God. 

Slowly the day passed and the sun sank be¬ 
hind the mountains while Tibeous sat alone, at 
the entrance of the cave, pondering deeply. 
He remembered that his mother had often 
spoken of a King who would some day come 
into the world, a great Deliverer she had 
called him, before whom all the nations of the 
world would bow and called Him blessed. 

Tibeous had wondered at times during the 
last weeks whether the glorious white robed 
figure could be that King, but this day, as he 
sat watching the sun sink, he decided that it 
was impossible. 

Beautiful the man was and tender and stir¬ 
ring, but surely, Tibeous thought, no one could 



WHEN THOU COMEST 337 

be a King and a Deliverer without courage 
and strength a thousand times greater than 
even he, a lion among his followers, possessed. 
Could that gracious, gentle figure possess such 
miraculous power? “And yet if I thought 
for an instant,” he murmured, “that that won¬ 
derful man was the King of whom my mother 
dreamed, I would forsake this lawless life and 
become his loyal follower.” 

At that moment he saw a dark cloud rising 
out of the west, the sign of one of the sudden 
storms which come so often in that country. 
Quickly it spread across the sky, the waves of 
the sea grew black and in a few moments they 
rose high crested with white foam, and the 
wind tore over them, while above the thunder 
pealed and the lightning flashed across the 
darkness. 

Tibeous stood in the cave watching intently. 
“Verily,” he exclaimed, “to conquer and sub¬ 
due his foes, a great Deliverer must have 
power stronger even than this mighty storm.” 

A flash of vivid lightning lit up the whole 
scene, and in the midst of the furious sea 
Tibeous saw a tiny boat. He saw the des- 



338 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

perate men within it and guessed at their ter¬ 
ror. ‘‘Surely,” he thought, “the next wave 
will engulf them,” and then walking upon the 
storm-tossed waters toward the boat he saw a 
figure, his white robes fluttering in the wind. 

Again all was darkness while Tibeous stood 
before the cave unheeding the torrents of rain 
which drenched him, his gaze fixed intently 
upon the sea, longing, almost praying, for the 
lightning to flash once more and show him 
again that mysterious figure. 

Another flash, and standing in the stern of 
the boat Tibeous saw the white robed man 
while the others knelt before him as if in rev¬ 
erence, and then—there was perfect peace. 
The storm died away, the waves were stilled, 
and the moon breaking out from behind the 
jagged clouds, threw its silvery light upon the 
boat sailing quietly across the sea. 

“Even the winds and the waves obey him!” 
cried Tibeous. “Surely this is the King all 
powerful, whom I vowed, if I ever found, to 
follow forever.” 

Two days later Tibeous was taken prisoner, 
carried bound to Jerusalem, and thrown into 







WHEN THOU COMEST 


339 

a dark dungeon. With his usual fearlessness 
he had searched undisguised, through the vil¬ 
lages for the Deliverer, but before he had 
found the Master he was recognised and cap¬ 
tured. Many a weary month he lay in the 
prison. At times his restless energy drove 
him almost crazy, and he would rush up and 
down his narrow cell like a caged beast. At 
other times, when the first beams of early 
dawn pierced the narrow slit in the stone wall, 
which was his only window, or when a silvery 
ray of moonlight struggled through, the scenes 
of his wild life seemed blotted out, and he 
thought only of the Christ, and of his kingdom 
to which now, alas, he could never belong. 

He supposed first it was an earthly king¬ 
dom, full of brave soldiers who would fight 
for the great King, to whom at last all the 
nations of the world would bow. But one 
morning, after nearly a year of imprisonment, 
he was taken out of his dark cell and led, his 
hands bound with leathern thongs, toward a 
green hill outside the city walls. Beside him 
walked another prisoner, a coarse, savage¬ 
looking man, well known for his brutal deeds, 


340 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

and upon the shoulders of each of them was 
laid a heavy cross. Upon those crosses they 
were to be crucified. 

Tibeous was wan and pale from his long 
imprisonment, but in his eyes, which gleamed 
out of his white face, there was no look of 
fear or hate. He was as willing to die as to 
linger on hopeless in the dungeon. The vision 
of the great Deliverer on which he had dwelt 
for so long seemed to fill his soul, his one long¬ 
ing was to serve him, and as that was impos¬ 
sible he had nothing else to live for. 

When they left the prison the sky was blue 
and clear, but as they reached the foot of the 
green hill dark, threatening clouds hung over 
them. The two prisoners paused there, rest¬ 
ing upon the ground the heavy crosses under 
which they had staggered, and then up the 
road from the city-gate another procession 
came toward them. There were priests in 
long robes, soldiers in red cloaks and shining 
armour, women—sobbing, many of them—and 
fishermen and peasants walking side by side 
with wealthy publicans and Pharisees. 

In the midst of the crowd walked a white- 





WHEN THOU COMEST 


341 

robed figure, and Tibeous caught his breath 
in astonished wonder. Could it be, yes it was, 
the King, the great Deliverer, who had drawn 
crowds to him upon the sunlit beach, and who 
by his great power had stilled the raging 
storm. And yet he was here to-day as a pris¬ 
oner, his hands bound and his garments torn, 
while before him walked a man bearing the 
cross on which the Christ, like a common 
thief or murderer, was to be crucified. 

^‘But he looks more like a King than ever,” 
thought the bewildered Tibeous, and then he 
understood! 

Around the Master pressed those who be¬ 
longed to the kingdom of this world, their 
faces cruel, or evil, or merely weak, and among 
them the Lord whom they had bound walked 
as fearlessly and graciously as a young king 
on his way to be crowned. But others, the 
poor fishermen and many of the women, seem 
to have caught his look of perfect goodness. 
They were frightened and heartbroken as they 
gazed at their King who was so soon to be 
taken from them, but they belonged to him, to 
his kingdom which was not of this world, and 






342 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

their faces, in spite of their sorrow, were full 
of childlike faith and trust. 

Up the hill streamed the procession, Tibeous 
and his companion, with their guard of sol¬ 
diers, walking slowly behind. 

And then followed the deed at which 
through all the centuries that have passed 
since then men and women have shuddered 
with awestruck horror. 

Jesus Christ, the Deliverer of the world, 
was nailed upon a cross, while upon two other 
crosses, one on his right and one on his left, 
hung the dying robbers. “With righteous 
wrath will he not denounce his murderers?” 
thought Tibeous, and then Jesus spoke: 
“Father, forgive them,” he said, “for they 
know not what they do.” And during the 
following hours of anguish he uttered no word 
of anger or condemnation. “How like a king 
he is even here,” thought Tibeous. “Above 
the mocking, cruel crowd he hangs, unmoved 
by pain, glorious, noble, kingly to the end. 
Soon my life will be over and I shall never 
see that wonderful face again. Ah! if for 
one moment only I might feel that I have be- 


WHEN THOU COMEST 343 

longed to his kingdom. I, a miserable dying 
thief, who richly deserves this bitter agony.” 

Then as the crowd jeered at the Master, 
crying, “He saved others, let him save him¬ 
self if he be Christ, the chosen one of God!”, 
the other robber mocked him also. 

“If thou be Christ save thyself and us!” he 
said. 

But Jesus answered not a word, and Tibeous 
cried to the robber: 

“Dost thou not fear God, seeing thou art 
in the same condemnation? And we, indeed, 
justly, for we receive the due reward of our 
deeds, but this man hath done nothing amiss.” 

Then turning his pain-dimmed eyes toward 
Jesus he gazed with adoration and longing 
upon the face of the glorious dying Master. 

“Jesus,” he said, his voice trembling with 
wistful entreaty, “Lord, remember me when 
thou comest into thy kingdom.” 

And Jesus, gazing back at him with tender 
compassion, answered slowly: 

“Verily I say unto thee, to-day shalt thou 
be with me in paradise.” 

The terrible hours wore away and then—we 


344 the emerald STORY BOOK 

know no more, but can we not picture to our¬ 
selves a faint glimmer of the glory into which 
that very day Tibeous entered? 

Jesus had said, “Whosoever shall not receive 
the kingdom of God as a little child shall in 
no wise enter therein.” And it seems to me 
that when, in the twilight, the spirit of Tibeous 
entered the kingdom of heaven, all his wild 
and selfish life was forgotten, and he was like 
a little lad again at his mother’s side. Surely 
his mother was waiting for him there, her 
arms outstretched with tender longing, and 
we know that he was with Jesus, the glorious 
King, the Light of Life, the Joy of the World. 

And so to Tibeous, the dying thief, there 
came the glory of Easter. 


THE LEGEND OF THE EASTER LILY 


When Jesus grew to be a man He went about 
teaching the people how to live. Many loved 
Jesus and believed what He told them. But 
some doubted His words, while others were 
unkind and even cruel. At last some wicked 
people believed it was unwise to let Jesus live 
and teach; and they hanged Him upon a 
cross. All His friends were very sad after 
they had seen Him die. They wrapped His 
body in linen clothes and laid Him in a tomb 
in a garden. A great rock was rolled in front 
of the tomb and soldiers were placed to 
guard the way day and night; for the wicked 
people who had killed Jesus did not wish any 
of His friends to take His body away. 

All night and all the next day the soldiers 
watched at the tomb. The second night a 
strange and wonderful light came slowly in 
the east and some little birds began to sing 
beautiful songs. Suddenly, there was a great 
345 


346 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

noise and a shaking of the ground and a beau¬ 
tiful angel came down from heaven, rolled the 
stone away from the tomb and Jesus came 
forth! Two beautiful angels stood at the door 
to meet Him and with them He walked away 
through the garden. 

When the friends of Jesus came to the tomb 
early in the morning they saw a wonderful 
sight. ^‘Behold,” said one, pointing to the 
garden near the tomb, “pure white lilies have 
come forth.” “And behold!” said the other, 
“where pure white lilies mark the footsteps of 
Jesus and the angels.” 

SONG 

Henry Neville Maughan 

There was a knight of Bethlehem; 

Whose wealth was tears and sorrows: 

His men-at-arms were little lambs. 

His trumpeters were sparrows; 

His castle was a wooden cross. 

Whereon He hung so high; 

His helmet was a crown of thorns 
Whose crest did touch the sky. 


IN THE GARDEN 

AN EASTER PRELUDE 
W. M. L. Jay 

Part I 

Deep down in the garden closes, 

In the wildering April weather, 

The embryo lilies and roses 
Whispered and wondered together:— 
‘What doth it mean, this thrill 
And stir in the mould about us? 

Will it prophecies sweet fulfil. 

Or cometh it but to flout us?” 

A Lily 

It may be a downward drift 

From that unknown world above us. 
Some mystical stir or lift 
Of beings that know and love us,— 
That world of wonderful things. 
Ineffable tints and glories. 

And blossoms that wander on wings— 

347 



348 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 
A Red Rose 

Now, do you believe those stories! 

That world and its wings and its glow, 

I fear me are only fancies 
Why, barely a fortnight ago. 

Went thither our friends, the pansies! 

A Lily 

Did any return to tell 

How the blindfold journey ended,— 

If joy at the last befell. 

Or a deadly frost descended? 

A White Rose 

Nathless, it is pleasant to stray 
In limitless dream and vision. 

A Red Rose 

Nay, better be senseless as clay 
And feel not the walls that imprison! 

A Pink Rose 

What more than this warm brown nest 
Need any one dream or desire? 





IN THE GARDEN 


349 


A Lily 

Ah, me! in my aching breast 
Is a thirst for something higher! 

I may surely trust I go 
To some lovely goal unknowing, 

To some better thing I grow— 

At least, I think I am growing. 

Part II 

Out in the garden closes. 

In the shining, summery weather. 
Blossoming lilies and roses 
Wondered and laughed together:— 
“What a wide, wide world of bliss. 

Of loveliest gleams and glowings! 

We had never a vision like this. 

In the fairest of hope’s foreshowings.” 

A White Rose 

What a beautiful thing is light! 

What marvellous thing is motion! 

The sunbeams in followless flight. 

The shimmer and swell of the ocean! 


350 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 
A Pink Rose 

And the sky, what a wonder of blue! 

And the dawn, what a dazzle of splendour 

A Red Rose 

How light is the fall of the dew. 

And the kiss of the breezes, how tender! 

A Pink Rose 

So blithe is the brown birds’ song. 

So clear is the ether they swim in! 

A Lily 

So kindly are men and so strong 
So gentle and gracious are women! 

A White Rose 

Such gladness to bud and to bloom 
Sweet odour and honey outgiving!— 

How could we, down here in that gloom. 
Conceive of this rapture of living? 

A Lily 

And yet, I was ever at strife 
With a hope—that was half a sorrow; 


IN THE GARDEN 


351 

So vain, in that underground life 
Seemed thought of a radiant morrow! 

Lilies and Roses 

On lines that to us were unknown! 

For written was all our story; 

To the Lord of the garden alone 
Be honour and praise and glory. 

For had He not planted with care, 

And loosened the earth from around us. 

We never had grown to be fair. 

Nor blossom nor blessing had crowned us! 






“SPIRIT” AND “LIFE” * 

Margaret Emma Ditto 


Two little souls were speeding their outward 
way from God. Angels folded their white 
wings in wondering silence, and watched the 
little ones go forth upon their unknown mis¬ 
sion. The sky parted to let them pass, and 
“trailing clouds of glory” the two souls swept 
on into that unmeasured space where there is 
no light but the stars, and no sound but the 
voice of their harmonies. Then the two little 
souls spoke. “Who are you?” 

“Who are you?” asked each of the other. 

“I am Spirit,” “I am Life,” they made 
answer. 

“It is all one,” sang the little souls together. 
“We are the same. We came from God; we 
are going to dwell with men.” 

So they sang very happily as they sped 


By permission. Copyright 1889, by Harper & Brothers. 

352 


•^SPIRIT” AND “LIFE” 353 

along, and their voices were attuned to the 
music of the great spheres. 

When the little souls reached the earth they 
said good-bye to each other, for each little soul 
had a house of his own. Not an immovable 
house made of wood and stone, but a tiny 
tabernacle that could be moved about. It was 
made of flesh and blood and skin and soft 
bones. It was the form of a little child. 

“Oh, how nice!” cried each little soul, 
quickly speeding through the house from top 
to toe, and pulling the strings which set the 
breath to coming and going, and the little 
fingers and toes to quirking and nestling. 

“I must take a peep out of the windows,” 
cried each little soul, as he pulled up the cur¬ 
tains and looked out. “Oho! our baby has 
blue eyes like the violets,” shouted the noisy 
children. 

“Ah, the Prince looks upon us; his Royal 
Highness has eyes like his father the King,” 
said the grand courtiers, speaking low, with 
deep reverence, for one of the little souls had 
found its home in a peasant’s hut, the other 
in the palace of a great king. 







354 the emerald STORY BOOK 

The little souls never saw one another again 
until they had spent their time on earth and 
were flying back to God. Again they were 
speeding their way through the unmeasured 
spaces of the stars. 

The souls knew each other, remembering 
the time when they had gone out from God 
to dwell among men. They gazed with joy 
at each other, for these returning souls were 
full of gracious loveliness, such as earthly eyes 
have not seen. 

“Sweet Life, you are no longer a little soul,” 
said Spirit; “you are strong and beautiful; you 
must have dwelt in a great house.” “Ay,” 
replied Life, serenely, “it was a perfect house, 
for the greatest of builders made it for me.” 

“Then it was spacious and lofty and beau¬ 
tiful, and it stood in a high and sunny space?” 

“Oh no; it was none of these,” replied Life. 
“It was narrow and infirm, and it trembled 
in the blast. No one who saw it desired it. 
But I loved it because it was the Gift of God, 
and I was so thankful. It stood in a deep 
valley, the shadows of the mountains made 
it dark, and I could not look far away. I 





SPIRIT” AND “LIFE 


355 


could not look down: there was only one way 
to look, and that was up, and my light came 
not from this side or that, but straight down 
from the Father of Lights, and so I was a 
shining one, though I lived in a dark place.” 

“What did you do in your house?” 

“Always I toiled and served and suffered 
and loved, for some needed me who were 
poorer and weaker than I. Sometimes I was 
hungry and thirsty and in pain, but oftener I 
shared my loaf and cup, and helped the pain 
of others, and I kept the door ajar so that 
the poor and troubled ones, those who were 
cast down and ashamed, could come in with¬ 
out knocking and rest in a warm place; and 
they loved me—the poor, the weak, and the 
little ones. They are weeping now because 
my house is empty, and I shall look out of 
the windows no more: it is cold, the hearth 
fire can never glow again. But my house 
was weak and crumbling down upon me. I 
could stay no longer. So I came away and 
left it fallen, prone upon the ground—earth 
to earth.” 

“My house,” said the Spirit, “was not like 




3 s6 the emerald STORY BOOK 

that; it was noble and strong. It stood on 
high among the kings of the earth, and looked 
over my broad dominions. My house had 
towers of strength and halls of bounty and 
fair gardens with pleasant fruits. Every one 
who saw it desired it for its beauty and feared 
it for its strength. It could not be shaken in 
the rudest blasts, and the shock of war could 
not make it tremble or force its gates.” 

^‘What did you do in your house?” 

“Always, like you, I toiled and served and 
suffered and loved, but not like you in the 
way of doing, for I was a king with sceptre 
and crown, and what I did was done in the 
royal manner. I could not share my cup and 
loaf with the hungry, nor lay my hand on the 
brow of pain as you did, but I could make laws 
and find out wisdom that would strengthen 
the land and bring bread and meat and health 
to my poor people. I could not take the suf¬ 
fering ones into my own house as you did, 
for they were many and my house was but 
one; but my house should stand a castle in 
their behalf—a stronghold and defence—and 
so standing it met its doom; in the prime of 


SPIRIT” AND ^^LIFE^ 


its glory it reeled, turret and foundation, be¬ 
neath the onslaught of the oppressor, and with 
a great fall it lay prone on the battle-ground, 
crumbling back to earth.” 

A herald went through the land crying, 
“The King is dead! the King is dead!” 

“So is good Barbara,” answered the peas¬ 
ants. “She was born the same night as the 
King, and she died the same day.” 

The two souls swept on through the wide 
spaces of the stars, on and on through the 
pearly gates of heaven. Angels folded their 
wings, and looked with tender awe upon these 
gracious beings who had come from the earth. 

“We cannot tell who they are,” said the 
angels. 

“One was a King. One was a peasant. 
But one cannot tell which was the King and 
which was the peasant,” said the angels: 
“these beings are alike wondrous fair and 
noble.” 

The two souls swept on, with equal stroke 
of their shining wings, through the serried 


3 s8 the emerald STORY BOOK 

ranks of the heavenly host, and God did not 
welcome these home-coming souls as king or 
peasant, but He gave to each a new name—the 
new name which He has promised to him that 
overcometh. 


A CHILD’S EASTER 

Annie Trumbull Slosson 

Had I been there when Christ, our Lord, lay 
sleeping 

Within that tomb in Joseph’s garden fair, 

I would have watched all night beside my 
Saviour— 

Had I been there. 

Close to the hard, cold stone my soft cheek 
pressing, 

I should have thought my head lay on His 
breast; 

And dreaming that His dear arms were about 
me, 

Have sunk to rest. 

All through the long, dark night when others 
slumbered. 

Close, close beside Him still I would have 
stayed. 


359 







36o the emerald STORY BOOK 

And, knowing how He loved the little chil¬ 
dren, 

Ne’er felt afraid. 

‘‘To-morrow,” to my heart I would have whis¬ 
pered, 

“I will rise early in the morning hours. 

And wand’ring o’er the hillside I will gather 
The fairest flowers; 

“Tall, slender lilies (for my Saviour loved 
them, 

And tender words about their beauty spake). 

And golden buttercups, and glad-eyed daisies. 
But just awake: 

“ ‘Grass of the field’ in waving, feath’ry 
beauty, 

He clothed it with that grace, so fair but brief. 

Mosses all soft and green, and crimson berry. 
With glossy leaf. 

“While yet the dew is sparkling on the blos¬ 
soms. 

I’ll gather them and lay them at His feet. 


A CHILD’S EASTER 361 

And make the blessed place where He is sleep¬ 
ing 

All fair and sweet. 

^The birds will come, I know, and sing above 
Him, 

The sparrows whom He cared for when 
awake, 

And they will fill the air with joyous music 
For His dear sake!” 

And, thinking thus, the night would soon be 
passing. 

Fast drawing near that first glad Easter light. 

Ah, Lord, if I could but have seen Thee leav¬ 
ing 

The grave’s dark night! 

I would have kept so still, so still, and clasping 

My hands together as I do in prayer, 

I would have knelt, reverent, but oh, so happy 
Had I been there. 

Perhaps He would have bent one look upon 


me; 


362 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

Perhaps in pity for that weary night, 

He would have laid on my uplifted forehead 
A touch so light; 

And all the rest of life I should have felt it, 
A sacred sign upon my brow imprest, 

And ne’er forgot that precious, lonely vigil, 

So richly blest. 

Dear Lord, through death and night I was not 
near Thee; 

But in Thy risen glory can rejoice. 

So, loud and glad in song this Easter morning, 
Thou’lt hear my voice. 


THE SPIRIT OF EASTER 

Helen Keller 


Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, 
and His mercy endureth forever. Sing unto 
Him a new song, for He causeth the desert 
to put forth blossoms, and the valleys He 
covereth with greenness. Out of the night 
He bringeth day, and out of death life ever¬ 
lasting. On this day a new light is upon the 
mountains; for life and the resurrection are 
proclaimed forever. 

The bands of winter are broken in sunder, 
and the land is made soft with showers. 
Easter day bringeth the children of men near 
to the source of all light; for on this day the 
Lord declareth the permanence of His world, 
and maketh known the immortality of the 
soul. He hath revealed the life everlasting 
and His goodness endureth forever. Easter 
is the promise of the Lord that all the best and 
363 






364 the emerald story book 

noblest in man shall be renewed, even as 
growth and bloom and ripening shall not 
cease. The bars of winter are broken, and the 
iron bands of death are riven. The bird is 
on the wing and the flight of the soul shall 
know no weariness. The lilies lift their holy 
white grails brimmed with the sunshine of 
God’s love. For, has not the Lord manifested 
His love in flowers and in the upspringing of 
green things? They are sweet interpreters of 
large certainties. Each year the winter cuts 
them down and each spring they put forth 
again. Each spring is a new page in the book 
of revelation, wherever we read that life is an 
eternal genesis, and its end is not; for it en- 
dureth forever. 



THERE ARE NO DEAD 

Maurice Maeterlinck 
Adapted from “The Blue Bird” 

‘‘Tyltyl,” said Light one morning, ^‘I have 
received a note from the Fairy Berlyune tel¬ 
ling me that the Bluebird is probably in the 
graveyard.” 

^What shall we do?” asked Tyltyl. 

‘‘It is very simple,” answered Light. “The 
fairy gave strict orders. You and Mytyl are 
to go into the graveyard alone. At midnight 
you will turn the diamond, and the dead will 
come out of the ground.” 

Tyltyl did not feel pleased. “Aren’t you 
coming with us?” he asked. 

“No,” said Light, “I shall stay at the gate 
of the graveyard. There is nothing to fear. 
I shall not be far away, and those who love 
me and whom I love always find me again.” 

Light had scarcely done speaking when 
everything changed. The shining Temple, 
365 





366 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

the glowing flowers, the splendid gardens van¬ 
ished to make way for a little country grave¬ 
yard lying in the soft moonlight. Tyltyl and 
Mytyl clung to one another. 

“I am frightened,” said Mytyl. 

am never frightened,” said Tyltyl, shak¬ 
ing with fear. 

‘‘Are the dead alive?” asked Mytyl. 

“No,” said Tyltyl, “they’re not alive.” 

“Are we going to see them?” 

“Of course; Light said so.” 

“Where are they?” asked Mytyl. 

“Here, under the grass or under those big 
stones, Mytyl.” 

“Are those the stones of their houses?” 
asked Mytyl. 

“Yes.” 

“When will you turn the diamond, Tyltyl?” 

“Light said I was to wait until midnight.” 

“Isn’t it midnight yet?” 

Tyltyl looked at the church clock. “Listen, 
it is going to strike.” 

Above the children tne tones of the clock 
boomed out as it started to strike twelve. 


THERE ARE NO DEAD 367 

“I want to go away, Tyltyl! I want to go 
away!” 

‘‘Not now, Mytyl; I am going to turn the 
diamond.” 

“No, no,” cried Mytyl. “Don’t! I’m so 
frightened. Brother! I want to go away.” 

Tyltyl tried vainly to lift his hand; he could 
not reach the diamond with Mytyl clinging to 
him. 

“I am so frightened.” 

Poor Tyltyl was quite as frightened as she, 
but at each trial his courage had grown 
greater. 

The eleventh stroke rang out. “The hour 
is passing. It is time,” and, releasing him¬ 
self from Mytyl’s arms he turned the diamond. 

A moment of suspense followed for the poor 
children, Mytyl hid her face in Tyltyl’s 
breast. 

“They’re coming,” she cried. “They’re 
coming.” 

Tyltyl shut his eyes and leaned against a 
heavy stone beside him. The children re¬ 
mained in that position for a minute, hardly 





368 THE EMERALD STORY BOOK 

daring to breathe. Then they heard birds 
singing, a warm scented breeze fanned their 
faces and on hands and neck they felt the soft 
heat of the balmy summer sun. Reassured, but 
finding it hard to believe in so great a miracle, 
they opened their eyes and looked about them. 
From all the open tombs were rising thousands 
of delicate flowers gradually growing more 
and more tall and plentiful and marvellous. 
Little by little they spread everywhere, over 
the paths, over the grass, transforming the rude 
little graveyard into a fairylike garden. Its 
sweet-scented breeze was murmuring in the 
young and tender leaves, the birds were sing¬ 
ing and the bees humming gaily above glitter¬ 
ing dew and opening flowers. 

“I can’t believe it! It’s not possible!” cried 
Tyltyl. 

The two children, holding each other by the 
hand, walked through what had been the 
graveyard, but where now no graveyard was 
to be seen. Vainly they searched among the 
flowers for a trace of the low mounds, stone 
slabs, and wooden crosses so lately there. In 
the presence of the truth they saw that all 



THERE ARE NO DEAD 369 

their fears of the dead were foolish. They 
saw that there are no dead; but that life goes 
on always only under fresh form. The fading 
rose sheds its pollen only to give birth to 
other roses, and its scattered petals scent the 
air. The fruits come when the blossoms fall 
from the trees; when the grub dies the bril¬ 
liant butterfly is born. . Nothing perishes; 
there are only changes. 

Beautiful birds circled about Tyltyl and 
Mytyl. There were no blue ones among 
them, but the two children were so happy over 
their discovery that they asked for nothing 
more. 

Relieved and delighted they kept repeating: 

‘‘There are no dead! There are no dead!” 


LITTLE BOY BLUE 

Alfred Noyes 

Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, 
Summon the day of deliverance in; 

We are weary of bearing the burden of scorn. 
As we yearn for the home that we never 
shall win; 

For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin, 
And the poor and the weak are a spoil for 
the strong! 

Ah 1 when shall the song of the ransomed be¬ 
gin? 

The world is grown weary with waiting so 
long. 

Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave. 
There was never a doubt in those clear 
bright eyes: 

Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the 
Grave 

As the skylark sings to those infinite skies! 

This world is a dream, say the old and the 
wise, 


370 





LITTLE BOY BLUE 


371 

And its rainbows arise o’er the false and the 
true 

But the mists of the morning are made of our 
sighs — 

Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy 
Blue! 

Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows, 

Sound but a note as a little one may. 

And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with 
the rose. 

And the Healer shall wipe all tears away; 

Little Boy Blue, we are all astray. 

The sheep’s in the meadow, the cows in the 
corn. 

Ah, set the world right, as a little one may; 

Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn! 


THE END 








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